The Sick Story REWRITTEN
by Morima
Summary: The Sick Story, as drawn on akibenetah.net and flamed twice on Deleterius - rewritten. This is a Saruman romance, so ye beware, Legolas fangirls! Characters: Saruman, Gríma, OCs. Crosses over with PhoenixFlame's Realm of the Vampyre.
1. CHAPTER I of Grease and Gate Guards

_This is The Sick Story, as drawn on Morima's website and ripped to shreds twice on Livejournal's Deleterius, -- rewritten. Full title: The Sick Story rewritten. Author: I. Skard. Rating: **R **for weed-smoking and questionable content. Canon characters: Saruman, partly Gríma. WIP, slightly AU, crosses over with PhoenixFlame's Realm of the Vampyre (to be read on my website). This is not a run-of-the-mill LotR fanfiction! Do not read if you are a rabid Legolas fangirl! May contain Mary-Sues, and it certainly contains originality. Enjoy!

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**CHAPTER I _of Grease, Filth and Gate Guards_**

Sick slipped off the horseback and flumped like a sack of potatoes to the ground.

The animal nuzzled her neck while she came to her senses, lying in front of the monumental steel gates. Inhaling the morning air she felt relief of finally having arrived … to what seemed to be her destination. A long groan escaped her upon noticing the rancid smell she emitted: a nasty mixture of horse and filthy Elf.

She started from the noise of a hatch opening in the gate above, and forced herself up on her feet. A pair of squinting eyes peered out.

Sick watched as the hatch closed with a snap. A few moments later the gates creaked open, and two armoured Men appeared -- staring in surprise.

«Uh,» the Elf moaned.

The guards stared.

This Elf had no notion of how long she had been travelling. Where she had departed from in the first place was lost to her, and even the origin of the horse was a mystery. It was as if she'd been dropped down from the heavens.

She regained her consciousness on some sort of bed. Sensation of damp hay under her fingers and the smell of filthy Men discussing excitedly caught her attention immediately, but from sheer unease she refused to let them know she was awake, and listened in to their conversation for a moment.

«… Don't worry 'bout it,» she heard one say, «a visitor of his wouldn't arrive in a state like that! Haven't you noticed; 'cept the Worm they always arrive in companies. If he ever has'em!»

«Right,» another shot in. «And this one's a woman. He doesn't expect women. As far as I know he never _had_ female visitors. We don't need ta turn her in at all! Do we?» The four Men shouted their agreement or disapproval simultaneously, making them appear a flock of excited apes, -- until a fifth person entered the conversation and cut through:

«Quiet! You'd better shut your faces before she even wakes, chaps! Whatever happens to her if rejected is our concern. Before that, she's a visitor of the wizard's, and don't expect nothing, boys. This isn't even a human female. They don't come and go just like that. Bert. You alert them up at the tower. Off ya go.»

Bert grunted and exited the gate chamber.

Sick opened her eyes and was nauseated. She was in a filthy room, walls of stone, roof low, smelly, and situated inside something only slightly more than a niche in the walls, closed off with black bars: a small prison. Four guards stared from outside the enclosement.

Sick sat up and exclaimed angrily: «My!»

«Careful,» said the fifth guard behind the others. «Before we know for certain that you got business here, you'd better be polite, little lady. I need ta ask ya some questions.»

She sat silent.

«First. What do you want from the Lord of Isengard?»

«I don't want anything from him,» says she. «It's he who wants something from me.»

«What would that be?» said the guard. He waved the other three out of the way and set a pair of narrowed eyes in her. Suddenly he produced a small bundle packed in brown cloth and held it up. «This little thing?»

«What nerve!» cried Sick. «Give it here!» She rose, approached swiftly, and tried to snatch it back between the vertical bars, but the Man closed his large hand around the package and drew back. «You need ta tell me what this is, little lady.»

«I don't know that,» said Sick. «As I said. It is property of Saruman the White. Obviously I never opened it.»

«I'll deliver it to the Lord myself, then,» said the guard and ventured to turn.

«You certainly do not,» snapped Sick. «I have information for your Lord.»

The Man stared solemnly at her.

«Who sent you,» he asked, but it sounded like a statement, as if he wasn't expecting an answer.

Sick remained quiet. In actual fact, she didn't remember. The guard eyed her under thick eyebrows (even these were greasy).

Then he broke a snide grin. Standing up, he muttered: «_I don't believe this._» He tucked the package in his pocket and said: «The wizard will have last word with you, but don't expect his hospitality! He's not fond of either uninvited or unexpected guests, -- you being both!»

Sick didn't reply, just propped herself up against the rough wall. _Now what._ Because she basically knew nothing about anything, she assumed there would be something about the package this Saruman-creature would need or appreciate. If it wasn't, then well, she had better try this option than starve in the wilderness. What else was there to do? Why else would she be here? This was her destination point, _Isengard_, -- suddenly she knew that for a fact; the information was obvious in her mind.

She waited. Within the hour Bert returned, informing the interrogator guard that Saruman indeed would see her, but at the gate, -- and at his own time. At first Sick was afraid that the wizard wanted to see her off, but on further conversation between the guards she understood that he was interested in the package after all. She hoped he had reason to.

The guards barely spoke to her as hours dragged by. The gate chamber had no windows and was lit only by candles and a small fireplace, so occasionally Sick would ask the guards of the time. They answered curtly, and most of the time she didn't even catch what they said. What a stink they gave off; even worse than her own. That reminded her. The wizard would get a bad impression indeed with her stinking like a man.

«Um, excuse me?» she ventured towards the gang of Men now sitting around the large wooden table, absorbed in some kind of betting games. «Excuse me!» she shouted.

They fell silent and turned their heads.

«Is there any soap and water?»

They stared at her, bewildered.

Sick sighed and shrugged. «Didn't think so.»

When night -- according to Sicks internal clock -- fell, she began to worry: How busy could a wizard living alone in a black tower be? She must've waited the entire day. What courtesy.

But just as she'd finished the line of thought three heavy knocks resounded from the door. Another Man, apparently a higher-ranked guard, entered. After speaking quietly with the head gate guard they exited together.

Sick stared and stood up from the bed. The gate guard re-entered the room, -- and Sick recognised with puzzlement that he seemed pale as he approached. He grabbed one of the bars and put a key in the lock, and with a click the door opened.

Immediately he took hold of her arm. «The wizard will see you,» he mumbled and led her towards the exit.

Finally. Sick felt a mingle of excitement and worry when she at long last got out. She entered a dimly lit hall; its ceiling was arched and it seemed to be a tunnel. She noticed the iron gates and realized she was inside the very walls of Isengard. Turning the other way she saw the wizard.

The Elf didn't know what she'd envisioned, but certainly not this. He was extremely tall. Basically everything about him was white, except his eyes. They were black and hard and direct set on her. In the semi-darkness behind him she noticed the nicely clad guard, standing stiff as a pole, an ornamented spear in his one hand. He had a beautiful pointed helmet on his head.

Sick was completely perplexed. «Hello,» she said and waved nervouosly to the wizard, trying to sound cheerful, failing miserably.

«Explain yourself,» he demanded.

For the first time Sick got intimidated. This person was unpleasant and unfriendly by his very nature. And that deep voice was, although not at all disagreeable, brimming with hostility.

«Er …--» she began. «… ummm …» she went. He maintained that stern stare, -- perhaps seeming a bit incredulous. «Oh. Yes!» she managed. «I had a package. It is for you, … my Lord.» She wanted to appear respectful and stood still, glancing and the package which she had noticed in Saruman's hands. The guard must've given it to him.

He took a few steps towards her, his steps resounding in the hall. What; was he wearing high-heeled shoes? Sick couldn't wrap her mind around this curious creature. Saruman held up the package, and she noticed that even his nails were long and white. Valar. _What a variety of beings you would find in blessed Middle-Earth!_ Sick thought with some irony.

The wizard said: «Tell me who sent you.»

«I'm sorry I can't be more helpful,» she replied. «I don't know.»

Saruman surprised her when he stretched out his arm and gave her the package. «As you understand,» he said, a dryness to his voice, «I would not accept unexpected deliverances from a person refusing to tell who sent it. I bid you be off unless you can be more informative.»

«I'm not lying!» she exclaimed. «Look. I don't even know what's in here.» She tossed the package back to Saruman, and with an expression of disbelief he caught it. «Open it and see if you want it or not, my Lord, whatever it is. It's a strange thing. … _It glows at night_,» she continued, -- remembering in a flash that the object lights up from within the brown cloths at every sundown.

Suddenly there was another strange flash of memories speeding through her mind, or rather a flash of knowledge: she had another notion and went with it:

«I'm sure it's no less a treasure than your … your black stone, my Lord.»

Saruman froze.

His stare became very uncomfortable.

«… What?» said Sick.

The next thing she knew was Saruman's iron grip around her upper arm as he forcibly led her towards the gates, -- the inner gates. Would you look at that! Sick was astonished. He was apparently not pleased, but was he ever? Most importantly; he would apparently accommodate her. Sick realized that notions could be a good thing when her memory didn't do its job.


	2. CHAPTER II of a Cranky Fellow

**CHAPTER II _of a Cranky Fellow_**

«_Aii!_» Sick yelled as Saruman pushed her into the hall at ground level of the Isengard tower. She tripped and fell, hitting her hip on the glassy floor. There was scarce light, she saw him towering over her as a white silhouette, the small crystal in his walking staff bright. She backed and got to her feet, cowering against the cold walls.

He had practically dragged her the half mile across the vale, through an inferno of a war machine preparing for the final assembly of the army. Was he a war lord; a strategist? Or a keeper of the lands, maybe he watched the tower? What was he?

_He's a wizard._

Suddenly Sick knew it without further ado. She slapped a hand to her head and blinked. _His identity was clear in her head!_ This was her target, but what was her mission, she couldn't remember, what was it?

«Get up,» he commanded, voice calm. He put out his black staff and notioned her towards an upwards staircase like another animal, and Sick obeyed in lack of another option. She hurried up the spiralling stairs, occasionally glancing over her shoulder.

Saruman looked extremely displeased in the flickering light from the torches. If he wanted to kill her, he would've done so already, right? Sick chose to believe so.

She realized they were high up when at last he bid her stop. She couldn't believe he wasn't even breaking a sweat from that climb; he walked past her and through a tall door as calmly as ever. He had to be a hundred years old from the look of it; that beard, and his skin, goodness, he was no less lined than the bark of an oak. Certainly no ordinary old man.

Tailing the wizard, Sick crossed dark halls and corridors until she at last entered a dimly lit and overly loaded study, or perhaps it was a library. It smelt like dust and old parchment, and ink, and fumes from the oil lamps along the walls thickened the air. There was possibly a table in the middle of the room: the heap of books, odd glassware and dusty bottles was slightly larger there.

She started when Saruman closed and locked the door behind them.

«Sit.» He motioned to nudge her with the staff into a tall-backed chair by the table, but she sat quickly, staring attentively at him, her hands in her lap. «Now,» Saruman said, his voice still calm. He sat down opposite of her. «You are to tell me everything as to where you hail from, who sent you, why you were sent, and all you are told of Isengard and my business.»

«But--» Sick piped. Saruman silenced her with an unpleasant stare. «Never lie,» he continued. «I would surely know, as would be the case if you held back information. Be obedient and speak. My reaction will be thereafter. If--»

«But I--»

«…If you interrupt me, you will wish you hadn't.» Sarumans voice was so low and intent that Sick cringed and felt goosebumps spread on her arms. She blinked and sat still while the wizard stared at her.

«…But I don't know anything more than I told those Men,» she said timidly at last. «I don't remember anything. I'm sure the package will tell more.»

Saruman held her stare for an hour, or so it felt. Suddenly the package was back in his hands. Sick watched as he opened the knot nimbly, pinched a corner of the cloth between his long nails and lifted it up. A small crystal object rolled out and clinked on the table.

It was a vial with a large diamond-shaped stopper.

«Oh,» said Sick, staring. «What is it?»

The vial disappeared in Saruman's long hand. «You are to answer my questions,» he said.

«I know what you want me to say,» Sick said. «You want me to talk about the black stone. I apologise, my Lord, but I merely assumed you possessing a black stone, being a wizard.»

«Then how would you ever come to the conclusion I'm a wizard?» said he. «I could be a watchman. A warlord. Royal family. A wizard, now? That's clever.»

Sick blinked. «I--» She interrupted herself. His hands were on the table, they looked manicured. «I don't know,» she finished weakly.

«You're a little liar,» he stated, in a tone as if he just said that two plus two is four. He leaned slightly over and added in a hostile growl: «Why whoever sent you would send a woman, is a mystery. Why you, is another. The harm an Elf child such as yourself could do to me is non-existant, yet you're fed with information you're not supposed to have in order to attract my attention, for reasons unimaginable! For what--»

«Goodness me!» Sick interrupted in a sudden start of realization. «The Palantír is drawn to a fallen Maia; it's _you!_»

She went silent. Saruman was gripping his black staff, half venturing to stand up. Before she got afraid Sick noticed that his eyes weren't black as she'd assumed, they were dark brown. Only they seemed black yet again as he narrowed his stare menacingly, leaned across the table and grabbed her by her hair.

Untouched by her painful cries he hauled her across the room towards a glass-door cabinet. Opening it he pushed the Elf away, sending her crashing into a bookshelf. She lay at its base with dust covering her hair, sobbing while the wizard searched the cabinet, handling glassware and liquids, his staff leaned up against the bookshelves. Sick barely noticed him striding across the room, picking up other ingredients and heating whatever he was creating over a flame, before he returned to the cabinet, added the last drops and closed the doors. He whirled around and set a relentless stare on her.

She gave a choked cry of fear when she felt his clawed hand around her throat; he pulled her up, bent her neck backwards and forced into her a hot thick liquid which burnt its way down into her stomach. She tried to cough it up, but immediately he held his other hand over her nose to block her breathing. The bottle clattered to the floor as he let go; he took a few steps back as the Elf collapsed coughing to the glassy floor.

«That's better,» was his drawling voice above. He attempted to nudge her into standing with his staff, but she had no strength. «I won't play games with you, child. I expect you'll be in a prepared state of mind to speak in a matter of minutes. Now. I want to know who gave you this information. If you do not speak, I will soon have my Uruk commanders to assist my persuasion of you.»

Sick whimpered, the serum a burning knot in her stomach and a cold sensation slowly filling her head. The air she breathed seemed chilly in her chest, but after a few heaving gasps she realized her mind was crystal clear.

As Saruman directed her into her chair, she began to recognize the feeling of information returning. The wizard … was Head of the White Council, formed an age ago to fight a fallen Maia. Now he was no less fallen himself -- but nobody else knew about this.

Saruman forced her to take more of the clarity serum as the day proceeded. When the shadow pattern from the wrought iron mesh before the windows lay elongated over the heaps of books and parchment, he left the library and returned with a bottle of strong wine, giving her half a goblet to keep her awake, continuing the questioning relentlessly, his eyes always resting on her and nowhere else, even when filling and litting his pipe. Only occasionally did Sick remember a fact here, a curiosity here, some of apparent interest to him, some which agitated or perhaps confused him, and some to which he gave such a calm reaction that Sick understood was important indeed.

After a certain amount of serum combined with wine she felt ill, but she didn't say anything. Saruman's comment about the Uruk commanders had planted a horror in her. He was patient and extremely calm. He lit more lamps when dusk fell.

Sick struggled to keep her eyelids open. Gazing at the dust particles lighting up in the last sun rays she faintly realized she's spoken nonsense for the last fifteen minutes, and the next she knew was blissfull sleep, her head nodding and at last flumping to a soft heap of parchment.

She only recalled two stinking small creatures, be it Orcs or Men, carrying her across dark halls and staircases and dumping her carelessly into some room. Grunting in a guttural language they slammered the door behind her. She didn't remember orientating herself, but the next day she awoke on a four-poster bed to morning sunlight pouring in from four tall windows.

A thorough bewilderment befell Sick before she realized where she was. But she felt moderately rested, and very curious. Rising, she discovered she was in a guest chamber, or so it seemed, -- not least from the content of the wardrobes in the opposite walls.

Opening their doors Sick started.

Saruman had a wardrobe filled with gorgeous female clothing? Goodness. In a fleeting sight she envisioned the bearded wizard in a lovely blue corset gown and high-heeled shoes, his hair and nails done, -- and the imagery made her whimper; then giggle.

But of course, this was a guest chamber and a guest wardrobe, made for a female guest at that. Going through the old clothes Sick caught herself wondering if he'd had female visitors before. She snorted. It was nothing she could imagine. Picking out a simple and nice-looking black dress she closed the wardrobe and changed.

Instantly her stink improved; she gasped when she realized the difference. Wrinkling her nose, Sick picked up her old clothes between two fingers, walked across the room, opened one of the arched windows and tossed the garments out. The start she got from the height almost made her follow the garbage. Quickly she drew back and slammered the window shut.

Exiting the room, Sick found herself in a round hall, its walls decorated with paintings and wrought metal ornaments. Wooden doors were everywhere, and they were arched; the tower seemed to have a thoroughly done style. The one door apparently leading to the downward staircase was locked, so Sick went upstairs instead, trying to sniff the wizard out in lack of another method of localization. It didn't really work, -- but she imagined catching the dusty library smell. She followed the scent further up and realized she was wrong when she suddenly stood in an empty chamber resembling a throne hall.

It was large and diamond-shaped, apparently covering a fourth of the floor, two windows and a large balcony at its far end. The throne was missing; Sick's association wrote from the extremely tall ceiling; the room was shaped like a diamond arched cone, all in the very same lava stone or whatever it was; -- as soon as Sick finished the train of thought she noted with confusion that she didn't even know what 'lava' was. She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples for a moment and focused on the interesting part of the chamber: The ornamented pidestall in its very center. Atop it was a black globe held in place by a spidery wrought metal hand.

Closing the door behind her, Sick entered the chamber, her eyes fixed on the poised object. She curled her hands around it touching its smooth surface, -- her eyes widening as she felt a faint heat radiating from it. Was it glass or stone? She couldn't place it. But it was beautiful. She tried to lift it from its holder, -- but started when she noticed a red glow inside. Leaning over, she peered inside.

So this must be the fallen Maia she was having memories about, whom persuaded Saruman to join his side, or something like that. Sick wasn't certain on the details, but she was certainly curious. «Uh,» she tried, not knowing what to talk to this person about. She mustered some courage. «Hi!» she shouted to the ball, staring at the developing shape inside. It began to look like a large cat's eye made of flames, the black pupil being slightly elongated, appearing as a black hole into nothingness. The response Sick got came inside her head.

She immediately recognized the hostility, but her curiosity overshadowed whatever fear or concern. Somehow the Maia couldn't get completely through, it seemed. Sick adjusted to the peculiar feeling of non-voiced conversation before she tried to send back. The Maia let a feeling resembling angered bewilderment shine through, demanding fervently her identity and origin, as well as her business. «My,» Sick went. «Don't be hostile. I'm not meddling in your plans or anything. I'm just visiting.»

There was no reply; he kept demanding information. Sick got concerned when she realised that the ball grew warmer. She tried to tear away, -- but part of her seemed physically stuck. Slowly her head got filled with his relentless questioning; it was the feeling of going insane, she imagined, -- step by step he captured her conscience, the stone still growing hotter, he was about to explore the information she had, with or without her consent; «No!» Sick managed to yell. Eyes still fixed on the ball she tried to withdraw, only managing a few centimetres, -- but that was a small victory. «Aaai!!» she screamed as she mustered her last shreds of willpower, screwed her eyes shut and ripped her hands away from the Palantír.

Even as she was rubbing her scolded hands on her dress, glaring at the now innocent-looking Palantír, she heard Saruman's rapid footsteps approaching.

Later she would never forget the sight of him as he appeared in the Watcher Room. He slammered the door open and strode in, holding his black staff with both hands in front of him; he was incredulous, standing there with his white robes billowing around him, and he was furious. Sick thought she felt a physical pain from his immense glare as he stood silent, only staring with those black eyes. She whimpered and fell back, tripped and hit herself on the floor. There she lay, her eyes brimming. She choked back a sob and hid behind her arms, waiting for the explosion.

It didn't happen. Saruman picked her up by the collar in one arm and heaved her over his shoulder, as if she was a piece of meat or a rolled-up carpet! He was silent all the way into the hall, entering the staircase and descending, entering the lower halls, and finally arriving at her guest chamber in long strides. He flung open the door, threw her inside and scoffed:

«That, Elf, was the last mistake you ever did.»

The door closed silently and clicked in the lock, as if stating that she'd yet to experience the true extent of his mercy.


	3. CHAPTER III of Bummered Consequences

**CHAPTER III _of Bummered Consequences_**

Sick had changed into a nightgown and was fast asleep when the sound of a key in the lock of the door caught her awareness. She blinked and sat up in the bed. With a start of fear she questioned herself why Saruman would get back to her now -- it was in the middle of the night!

She jumped out of the four-poster but didn't get far before the door flung up and two short-statured Men entered. They didn't say anything, only squinted and sniggered with growling voices as they grabbed Sick by one arm each and hauled her out.

«_Aaai!_» Sick squealed and tried to tear out of their grip, but the only result was her nightgown tearing in the side. So she ceased the resistance rather soon.

They pushed her into the spiraling staircase and led her upwards. Sick bypassed the level leading to the library, the level leading to the Watcher Room and two more levels. How many could there be? When she sensed a sharp wind rushing down the staircase she realized that they were headed for the rooftop.

She emerged with the guards at small plateau with a half-open iron door before her -- she was inside one of Orthanc's four horns! The whiff of one of the Men as he passed made her nose wrinkle. Luckily she didn't have time to ponder the source of his stench before the other guard pushed her out, at that moment, she got other matters to think about.

The area of the rooftop was diamond shaped, vastly larger than she'd imagined. Carved into its glassy surface were intricate symbols between a pattern of straight lines that met in a point at the very center, there stood Saruman, holding his staff; his hair and attire moving slightly in the wind.

«Leave,» said the wizard coldly addressing the guards. As soon as within reach he grabbed Sick's wrist, but he kept his eyes on the Men as they turned and exited through the same door. «Now,» he said. Saruman held his head straight but glanced down at Sick, and the grip around her wrist was iron.

«What is happening, my Lord?» Sick ventured. «_A!_» she piped as Saruman pulled her towards the edges of the rooftop. Her heart began to race as they approached the edges, and she tried to tear loose, -- all futile; contrary to the guards, Saruman proved stronger than he looked.

It was little doubt as to what he wanted to do: He was going to toss her out! This was her execution!

«_NO!!_» Sick screamed. She gripped around Saruman's one arm so tightly that her fingernails bent painfully against the rough fabric of his robes. In the corner of her eye she saw Saruman baring his teeth as he clutched his free hand around her neck, pushing her forcefully towards the edge.

She kept her hold on his arm, -- and that's when it came back.

«_No matter what Sauron told you!_» she screamed, her voice resounding from the valley below.

Her feet had a scarce connection to the very edge of the rooftop, her weight held merely by Saruman's hold on her, and her hold on Saruman. The fear had overtaken her mind so suddenly that the rush of adrenaline through her body blurred her vision and made her breathe in shallow heaves.

Saruman's gaze was ever so calm.

«It is the law,» he said.

«It does not have to be.»

In a sudden movement Saruman yanked his arm out of Sick's grip and, in the very same movement, grabbed the front of Sick's thin nightgown with his other hand. He was in complete control of her life or death. At this moment her every word should be weighed on a scale of gold!

«Give me time,» Sick said in an erratic breath. «I will tell you every movement of the War, my Lord. All that comes back to me, I will pass on to you.»

He didn't move. And suddenly Sick felt with horror an odd sensation along her side; she realized that the tear in her nightgown was expanding. Droplets of cold sweat had formed on her face, chilling her skin in the cold night, her cheeks were already wet from silent tears, her eyes reflected the white moonlight. Sick choked on the next words.

«I knew about your identity and the Palantír. I know about your servant and spy, Gríma son of Galmod, and the woman! Tathiel … She will fail her mission in Imladris, I can--!»

Saruman pulled her back into safety. But Sick's nightgown tore along its complete length. Gravity overtook her, and it seemed like full seconds of weightlessness before her instincts kicked in. She grabbed Saruman's robes with both hands, and she was silent, but her face revealed terror on the edge of madness.

Paradoxally enough it was the wizard that occurred to her as the safety moment now. Screaming like a wounded animal, the Elf refused to let go of his clothes, not at all noticing his steely grip around her upper arms, or later, his angry sigh as he tossed her up on his shoulder and carried her back down into the tower.

She regained her sanity in the library.

He sat above her, eyes on her, just like the previous day. Sick was hunched over the table with a blanket over her shoulders. She blinked a few times and remembered that Saruman had administered the blanket, -- although not from well-meaning, she recalled, rather the fact that her thin nightgown was completely ruined. She felt a sudden sting of shame that the wizard might have seen her bottom. The fact that she worried about this, however, must be promise enough that she wasn't completely insane yet. She sighed and laid her head in her hands.

She jumped when Saruman placed a tall bottle of wine on the table before her. She hadn't noticed that he'd stood up, but there he was, right behind her. She peered up at him from the blanket.

«I seem to recall that there was some preferrals as to the dryness of my wine.» His voice was quite toneless. Saruman put down a silver goblet and took his place. «This one is sweet. Well, now.» The Elf stared as Saruman took his long pipe from somewhere in his robes, filled it with pipe-weed and lit it. «We shall talk.»

«Thank you, my Lord,» said Sick timidly.

Saruman gave her a nasty glance. «Don't get ahead of yourself. You'd do wise keeping in mind that your very existence depends on my use of you.»

Sick nodded vigorously.

«I'm certain I don't need to instruct you that the Watcher Room is off-limits,» Saruman continued. «Also, I'm sure your intuition informs you that if you cannot provide me with useful information, you will leave Orthanc from the rooftop.» He made a pause, pointing the tip of his pipe towards the roof with his eyes in Sick's. She had goosebumps under her blanket as Saruman finished. «You'd be most clever in walking these halls _very _cautiously.»

Sick nodded.

He lowered his pipe. «Do I make myself clear?»

She nodded again.

«Furthermore, you are not to leave the tower of Orthanc unless I say so. You are not to take orders from any other than me personally. Conversely, you shall never hesitate in following my word. Do not make contact with any of my servants, guards, or soldiers, and they will not take notice of you. You have already been assigned a guest room. You shall stay in your room unless I allow or tell you otherwise.»

«Ah. Certainly,» mumbled Sick. «Um …!»

«Do you have any questions?» said Saruman as he lifted one of his large, dusty books from the table and laid it down in front of him.

«Um … Can I take some wine?»

Saruman only looked scornfully at her. In a hurry she filched the bottle and goblet.

The wizard allowed Sick time to have her drink under the blanket before he began the interrogation. In the meantime he wrote in his book. Sick tried to peer over the table to read what he was writing, but his large feather quill left hairthin lines that not even an Elf could make out clearly from the distance.

She realized that she remembered every little detail about Saruman himself. He had little interest of this, however, being past the astonishment of the Elf having information in the first place. He wanted to know about this _Tathiel_, but Sick remembered little more than that she was some sort of an Elf, that she was currently in Imladris, her purpose being to assassinate a resident there, that she would fail for some reason unknown, and that she would arrive with Saruman's assassin, or spy, Sick wasn't sure.

Saruman had apparent interest in whatever details Sick knew about Sauron, his forces, his movements and the preparations of Men. Sick felt some faint importance of another army: she envisioned walking trees, but the idea seemed so ridiculous that she only mentioned it briefly. Saruman didn't seem interested, -- and Sick went silent about it, but she suddenly knew with every fiber of her being that he'd better heed that little moment.

But as Sick's intake of wine increased, her fear of execution vanished, -- and at this point there occurred an incident which could have taught Saruman something beneficial about Sick, had he actually understood what happened:

Just before the dawn sun rose, Sick's bottle of wine was all of a sudden empty, and the Elf found herself dizzy and a bit nauseous. In the middle of an explanation about the importance of timing where the release of Saruman's hosts were concerned, she sent the empty wine bottle clattering to the floor in a graceless gesticulation. «Oh,» she said and giggled. «Pardon me.»

«So, Elf,» said Saruman, still ever so focused. He had lit his tenth pipe or so for the night. «The armies should be released earlier, is that what you say?»

«You are the shtrategist, my Lord,» said Sick. «I couldn't mention nothing 'bout the … um,» here she forgot what she was going to say. «Sharuman, look,» she went, leaning over the table, her eyelids half-closed. «Let me smoke some of your pipe-weed, eh?»

«Stay focused,» snapped Saruman.

«I think you'd better send the Men out first, not the Uruks, as you would normally do,» said Sick in a clear moment. Then she capitulated, giggled, and ducked under the table. Saruman looked bewildered up from his books for a moment, -- and when Sick peered up from underneath the table just beside him, a big smile on her blushing face, he gave a weary sigh and put his quill down.

«Are you feeling comfortable, Elf?» he said acidly as she climbed up on the tall chair beside him.

«Very much indeed, thank you, my Lord!» she cooed. «Can I borrow some pipe-weed, Lord, if you don't mind?»

«It's time for you to retire,» said Saruman and closed his book.

«Oh, let me have some weed fiiirsht!» begged Sick.

«I have never heard of a weed-smoking woman, let alone an Elf,» scoffed Saruman and ventured to rise.

«But please,» said Sick. She grabbed one of Saruman's hands with both her own and gave him a puppy-eyed, watery stare. «I think it shmells nice, see.»

«Elf!» Saruman sneered and pulled his hand free so suddenly that Sick nearly lost balance. «Go to your room.»

Attempting to focus her stare, he said: «Elf. _Look at me._»

She looked at him, bewildered, and she thought he looked hideous, face distorted with impatience and every line deep and visible. His eyes reminded of small black beetles, strands of his white hair hanging like a curtain before them.

He held her stare for an hour, or so it felt. There was a long silence before he spoke, -- and when he did …!

Afterwards, Sick only assumed that he had said «go to your room,» but she could never be certain.

Saruman spoke, and the impression changed on the whole. Sick gaped and plunked back in the chair.

_His voice! _So smooth; she wanted him to speak more! By the second the notion grew in her head, and everything changed; suddenly Saruman didn't appear hideous at all, Sick thought his eyes were clear and brilliant, his arched eyebrows were exquisitely shaped, as was his face; he was so elegant, she had never seen anything like him.

Among these feelings of affection, an equal force of dominance was trying to get through. But Sick didn't notice. She smiled sheepishly, gazing up at Saruman in dumb adoration.

And then the wizard said:

«_Do as I say, Elf!_»

«Anything!» shrieked Sick.

She flung herself around his neck, sobbing from a mere overload of emotions. Sadly, it came to a painful and quick end. She found herself on the floor with a sharp pain in her hip, Saruman's chair lay crashed to the floor behind him, and he loomed over her like a madman, there was absolutely nothing attractive about him anymore. He roared:

«Are you _insane_, woman!»

Sick didn't move, she only stared at the man. Her thoughts was a chaos in her half-drunken mind.

«Be out of my sight before I have the Uruks rip you apart,» said the wizard, his voice ice-cold. He took his black staff to chase her off, -- but Sick was already vanished from his presence.

The door was left open after her. The wizard sat down in his chair, leaning his one elbow on the table, pondering, still holding the staff in his other hand. He listened to the faint sound of Sick's bare patting feet until it faded away in the staircase. With his eyes fixed on the library doors, they suddenly swung together and closed with a click.

Sick's door slammered behind her. Sniffing and sobbing, she shuffled to the windows and opened them, before she threw herself on the four-poster bed and buried her face in the masses of black hair. The Elf remembered all that happened, but she didn't understand more than the next person.

Also, she was still drunk, which didn't exactly clear her mind. The only thing she knew was confusion for having felt like that for this … man; this man so drowned in his own loneliness and bitterness that it had corrupted and distorted him. She was ashamed for the way she'd behaved. And she was angry -- because obviously, Sick understood that Saruman had done something. All these emotions mixed up inside her and made her curl up on the bed, crying and crying.

Saruman sat alone in his study. He was lost in his own world of thoughts. How this could happen was beyond him, and while that was a feeling he loathed, he was intrigued by the turn of events. It was long since something unexpected happened. Surely the Elf girl was peculiar -- Valar only knew _what_ she was -- but this incident was … Yes. Unexpected.

Saruman, being a wizard of Middle-Earth, could never have guessed the truth. He could have made a close guess, however, if he witnessed Sick's encounter with Sauron through the Palantír. The exact same thing happened there. All kinds of outside effects can get to Sick, just like they can to everybody else of Middle-Earth, to varying degrees, -- but the pure dominance can't. This is why Saruman's Voice, which enforces a mixture of dominance and affection on the target, only made the Elf feel the affection!

Why Sick is put together like this, is a question to be answered later. Saruman however, though being one of the most intelligent beings of Middle-Earth, would've had tremendous problems understanding the mechanics of her ending up in his lap.

Sick lay on her bed, breathing calmly.

She had at last stopped crying. She felt just on the verge of falling asleep when she registered a whiff of warm, sweet-smelling air on her face.

She blinked the half-dried tears from her eyes and peered over her shoulder.

«_Aah!!_» she yelled, starting as if electroshocked. Within the second she was pressing herself into the head panel of her bed, her feet wrapped in the sheets; cold sweat broke on her forehead as she stared at the opposite side of the bed:

On top of the foot-end panel, perched and crouched like a little bird, sat a girl, a woman, staring at her with large, slanted eyes.

«_Who are you!_» cried Sick.

«I think you know that,» drawled the creature. Her voice was deep. «In your worthless soul.» She slinked onto the bed. She was graceful, very catlike, her large ears protruding from a mane of wild black hair. Those weren't Elven ears. This was certainly no Elf. Suddenly Sick met her eyes.

They were red! Dark red, like animal eyes, the woman's pupils were slightly elongated, Sick couldn't believe what she saw! «I … I _do _know you! You are _Shaka_,» she breathed at last.

This was another forgotten part. Forget about Saruman for now. Sick had yet to force the knowledge about _herself_ to the surface! As in a forgotten memory she had seen this woman before, she had known her, she had … been her!

«Ah, Shaka, yes. I am Shaka. Of course!» The creature sat right in front of Sick, her small nostrils widening as she discreetly sniffed the smell of the Elf, analyzing her. «Look, girl. Whatever you are, listen to me.» Sick nodded vigorously, overwhelmed by the compelling nature of the other.

«I am part of you. I am inside you.»

«… What?» piped Sick.

«Quiet. Listen. You shall know that I am part of you. If you haven't realized it yet, you will soon, or somebody else surely will. You shall also know that I do not tolerate your deviating behaviour, seeing as I, too, must endure it.» Shaka made a strange, spitting noise. «Do I make myself clear?»

«I --»

«_Do I make myself clear?_»

«No!» exclaimed Sick and lowered her head to make Shaka back off. The creature didn't move. But the Elf was determined: «I only do what I have to do! I don't behave strangely at all. I do what I want! If you are the reason I forgot everything, I'll surely _not _do your bidding.» She backed off a little, but her stare was still set in Shaka's.

«Ah,» drawled the creature and edged in on her. «Put it like this. I am the reason you have things in your head that _do not belong there_. Black stone. Ha.»

Sick looked at her, confused. «I only do what I have to do,» she repeated.

«Have to? Have to! You don't _have to _lust after that old creep. Or do you! Man; you're so _sick, _girl! Yes! That's what I'll call you, slut! _Sick!_»

Sick was honestly incredulous. And, not understanding that last part, … lost for words.

«_Lhuh--!_» she gasped. Then she collected herself. She shouted: «_Lust after? _After Saruman? Are you _insane_?»

Shaka emitted a growl that turned into words: «_I am in you head!_» she snarled. «I see your thoughts, your feelings, your every whim!» She bared her teeth. They were white and wet, and the sight was so terrifying that Sick panicked. In a split second Shaka grabbed her thin neck and locked her in a relentless grip. «Be sure that I will haunt you till _insanity _if you get out of line, Sick, be sure!»

«I won't get out of line!» cried Sick, desperate, «You're wrong, I don't even like Saruman, that's ridiculous!»

«Liar!» sneered Shaka in Sick's face.

«Let me go, … let me _go!_» yelled Sick and heaved herself up in the bed.

The room was dark and hot, she was covered in sweat and intertwined into the bed sheets, her dress soaking wet.

There was nobody in the room but herself. Sick breathed heavily and felt her heart racing, she could feel its beats in the respiration. «Oh,» she sighed, wiping sweat from her eyebrows. «Oh.» She slumped back into her pillows. «It was a dream,» she whispered to herself. «a silly dream.»

She fell asleep again and slept sound until the sun rose.


	4. CHAPTER IV of the People in your Head

**CHAPTER IV _of the People in your Head_**

Saruman never mentioned the incident with the Voice.

And Sick didn't give her dream a second thought. In fact she forgot about it, until an episode occurred one day which brutally made her remember.

Sick wasn't allowed to take the library books to her room. She stayed in the library during the day when Saruman was outside -- doing whatever it is that wizards do -- as well as the rare occasions in evenings where Saruman didn't have time to interrogate her. The nights he occupied the study he would seldom tolerate her, but occasionally he was in a decent mood and let her sit in the windowsill behind the bookshelves to read, -- as long as she didn't make a sound.

There was one of these evenings that Sick entered the library when he was already there. As soon as she came in the door, dressed in the same clothes she had worn the previous day, Saruman put his quill down and closed his book.

«Ah,» he grunted.

Sick started. «What is it, my Lord?»

«Come here,» said Saruman and beckoned her with his quill. «… Elf.» He eyed her in a sideways glance as she approached, his hands folded neatly on the table in front of him. «I want you to explain yourself. You were seen at the stables, both today and two days ago.»

«What?» exclaimed Sick. Suddenly she made a strange, spitting noise and added angrily: «Who said that!»

«You are well aware that you are not allowed to leave the tower!» sneered Saruman. «Explain yourself!»

«It isn't true, my Lord! Look!» Sick ventured to sit down at the table, but Saruman's warning glance made her change her mind. «True, I was in the basement two days ago. There's an exit there that leads to the stables, and it's correct that I looked through the door, because it was open, and somebody there saw me, -- but I didn't go out! And … Today, -- I haven't even been out of my room!»

Saruman seemed suspicious. He stated: «Very well. I will have your room searched for the etymology book.»

Sick's insides went cold with horror. «The etymology book is on its shelf,» she piped. «I have … I've been ill all night and day.» She hesitated. «I haven't been quite myself. I think I have a fever.»

Saruman looked at her -- and it seemed he was going to speak. He leaned slightly over the table. There was a pause where Sick felt quite lost, but then Saruman spoke:

«Sit.»

Sick sat.

«You haven't been quite yourself?» said Saruman. «Why is that?»

Sick was bewildered. «Uh, um I ... I mean I --»

«Don't sit there gabbling.»

«I can't place it,» said Sick. «I have felt a little … Distant. Distant from myself. Oh.» She felt her head spin again. With a sigh she put her hands to her temples and rubbed them.

Immediately Saruman asked:

«What's your name?»

«Shaka Lemira,» moaned Sick.

That's when the memory of her dream hit her like a blow to the head. Instantly she slapped her hand over her mouth, her mind still spinning, she didn't notice that Saruman arose before he suddenly stood behind her.

«_Mirah!_» she yelled when the wizard took hold of her collar, lifted her from the chair, turned her around and threw her onto the table. She flumped on her back over a heap of parchments, dust flying through the air, Saruman's hand around around her neck. He could remind of a surgeon ready to operate when he held one of the oil lamps in his free hand and leant over the Elf.

He studied her face. Sick was clear-headed for a second and noticed again how the light from the lamp made Saruman's eyes appear dark brown. For a second he didn't look disgruntled, or annoyed, or impatient, as he usually did, at all. He looked curious. «Mirah,» he said. «Tell me what it means.»

«Uh, it doesn't really mean anything, it's only an exclamation,» stammered Sick.

«In what language?»

«It's eldzamian.»

«Say your name again.»

«Akira Shaka Sabina Sekira Lemira.»

Saruman raised his eyebrows; he looked amused. «And where do you come from? Do you remember?»

«Of course! I'm a similite, I'm Zamian! Are you gonna let me go? Get your hands off me.» Sick grabbed Saruman's hand but realized that he was stronger.

«Elf,» he said. «You are certainly _not _yourself. Either you're something I have never before encountered, or you are completely insane. _Sit!_» He released her, and she shuffled back into her chair. «Obviously, things would normally make me settle on the latter.»

Saruman went back around the table and took his seat. «But then we have the curious fact that for the last five minutes, your eye color has changed between blue, violet and red.»

Sick blinked.

«Do you have an explanation for this phenomenon?»

Sick just gave a dumb stare. «Changed?» she said meekly.

«I take it that you do not notice, seeing as it changed back to the regular blue right now,» said Saruman, a hint of interest in his voice.

«What? My Lord, I--»

«It would seem to me,» said Saruman as he took out his pipe and filled it. «that you think you're an Elf in one state, and this rude _Shaka_-person in another state.»

«Shaka? That's not my name,» said Sick. «My name is _Silmariël_. Though, Shaka gave me the name _Sick_, she knows no better.»

Saruman took the pipe from his mouth and chuckled. «That's enough for today,» he said dryly.

«No, my Lord, oh I just remembered!» exclaimed Sick. «I remembered my name!»

«Congratulations,» said Saruman. With that, the conversation was over.

Saruman ignored her, smoking in peace. But Sick noticed that he hadn't chased her away as he usually would. She sat still in her chair, peering at the wizard from the corner of her eye. He looked peaceful, concentrated, well-groomed, his white hair lying over his back, not a strand out of place. What if--

«Elf,» he said without looking up. «Stop staring.»

«Oh,» piped Sick, perplexed. «I just … My Lord, could I not have a try at your pipe-weed?

He looked up.

«Let's make a deal, shall we. I will give you a full pipe on one condition: You shall smoke the entirety of it -- within the hour.» There was a nasty twinkle in his eyes.

Sick brightened. «So be it, my Lord!»

Saruman gave her an overbearing glance. He went to one of the old cabinets by the door and came back to the table, a beautiful long pipe in his hands. It was made from black wood and inlaid with hairthin silver strands.

Sick stared at the fine workmanship. «Let's have it like this,» said Saruman as he filled the pipe. «That if you manage, you will have both the pipe and all the weed you could want. Best of luck to you.» He handed her the pipe and a tinderbox to light it.

But Sick removed the glass tube from the oil lamp and lit the pipe nimbly with its flame, her eyes flashing violet for a split second. «Ah,» she sighed and sat back. «Oh yes.» She'd had a craving for Saruman's weed since she first smelt it, and although this weed was strong and different from what she was used to, whatever that was (she didn't remember), it certainly hit the spot.

She noticed that Saruman, although he had returned to his books, glanced at her from time to time. But Sick finished her pipe well within half an hour, and indeed, when she withdrew for the night Saruman didn't speak when she took the pipe _and _his pouch of weed with her. Perhaps he didn't notice, but he certainly was ill-tempered when she left.

Sick felt heavy-headed and frightened that night, lying in her bed in the darkness. She couldn't fall asleep. Senseless thoughts of Saruman or his guards banging on her door to drag her out, toss her off the rooftop, or throw her to the Uruks, was haunting her for no reason. Her imagination was working at top speed, but so was her reasoning mind. At last she realized that Saruman's weird pipe-weed was to blame. She decided then to stay off it, -- but knew deep down that she'd smoke even more of it the next evening in the library.

She was thinking about that dream, facing her concerns this time. The woman. _Shaka_ was her name (Sick assumed it was Westron; it certainly wasn't Elvish): First of all there was her claim to be inside Sick.

Although common sense contradicted this claim, current events pointed towards its validity, -- for example Saruman noticing that Sick's eyes changed between red and purple, or was it violet, or … Sick didn't know. It didn't matter! Her eyes were blue. Pale blue; azure. _They always were._

But the woman in her dream had red eyes. Sick rolled up under her sheets.

Standing in the library today she had watched Saruman sitting there before the tall windows. His back straight, eyes fixed on her, telling her off for going out, and she had reckoned that …

Sick had a realization and sat up in her bed. That's it!

See, Shaka expressed distaste for Saruman and that -- as she saw it -- that Sick didn't mind the wizard.

Nothing in the lines of that had occurred to Sick. But there was today. In the library, when Saruman told her off, she had studied him, his long hair and posture, and she'd thought: Valar, … When he was young, he was beautiful. That's when Shaka kicked in on her! Her own eyes changed color from blue to red! Shaka didn't approve with Sick's decision on the other man's appearance, and tried to take her over to stop it!

Sick flung her sheets aside and rose. Her feet patted over the cold floor to the windows, and she opened them. The air cleared her mind somewhat, and she was determined: She could remember Shaka's compelling nature; this woman is used to being in charge. However, Sick's mind was not anybody else's to take in charge. Whatever way Shaka had gotten into her head -- Sick wanted to find out how, and get her out.

_Certainly_, she thought as she returned to her bed. As long as she regocnised the signs of Shaka approaching, she could block her out like she blocked Sauron, and Saruman's voice, out.

Eventually she fell asleep, feeling the most comfortable yet. She dreamt lively that night, but the next morning she couldn't remember their content, thank goodness.


	5. CHAPTER V of Leeched Chemistry

**CHAPTER V _of Leeched Chemistry_**

Sick visited the stables before noon the next day and darted back into the Orthanc basement as soon as she was spotted by the guards. She'd convinced herself that she wanted to see her horse, so Shaka didn't bother her. But only a few hours later Saruman summoned her to the library.

He was angry, but Sick was very apologetic. She tried to explain the matter about the horse which was, at least to her, a swell reason to leave Orthanc, -- only for a few minutes! She had even taken the freedom to bring the wizard a bottle of dry wine from the storeroom on the second floor (she smelt the different corks for half an hour to find the driest one); at least he seemed pleased about that one.

But he said something which made her decide never to go outside ever again:

«Elf. Keep in mind that my people are to treat you as my guest under the commitments a guest has in my residence. That is, if you leave the guest area, that is Orthanc, the guards and soldiers are no longer required to follow these orders. You might've been lucky so far, but the smarter of them will remember the laws and exploit it if they get their opportunity. I expect you to do as I tell you. And I'm certain that a woman with an intellectual power as minute as yours will recognise that clever people -- or those more clever than yourself -- are dangerous.»

Sick was silent for a while, digesting this information.

Then she asked: «My Lord … Are you afraid of Sauron?»

«Afraid!» he exclaimed, his eyes burning. She had hit a nerve. «Foolish little girl,» Saruman scoffed. «You know nothing of _fear_. You know nothing at all. I shall allow you ask me merely one question a day, if you must. Be off with you and fetch pipe-weed, and afterwards I shall see you back here. Be off!»

Darting down the spiralling stairs so swiftly she swivelled when entering the second level, Sick couldn't determine whether Saruman angered or compelled her more when he scorned her like that.

It was certainly a good mixture; emotions cluttered her mind and distorted the ways she'd expect herself to behave when he stared at her with those narrowed black eyes. Usually he only made her go silent and appear dumb. She hated it. On this very thought she realised with a start:

She'd like for nothing else than that Saruman one day gave her just a little bit of … credit.

Acknowledgement! Sympathy, perhaps! … No. That's far fetched. Sick tittered to herself at the mere notion of Saruman's face with a friendly expression, and then she felt Shaka trying to access her awareness in protest. She pushed the nuisance effectively back by concentrating on filling the leather pouches with pipe-weed from the small barrels and continuing thinking about Saruman: The last thing Saruman would ever show her, was respect. Or no, Sick giggled. Love!

She could hardly breathe from the heavy climb when she re-entered the library, cluthing the handle of the door as if she couldn't stand at all, and slumping down on her chair with the grace of an Orc. Saruman looked at her as if she was a swine wallowing in mud. «What Elven grace,» he muttered.

Sick got more offended than she let shine through. «That reminds me,» she said and pushed three filled bags of pipe-weed onto the table. Saruman took one of them without touching her. «You merely call me _Elf_. That is not my name, Lord.»

«Your name is of no importance.»

«I seem to remember that you demanded my origin and heritage, Lord. Do you not contradict yourself?!»

«Elf!» snapped Saruman and leaned slightly over his books. «You are a child. You are aware of matters, but you understand nothing. If it weren't for the information you slipped out you would've been dead, or worse, in the hands of my gate guards. Do you honestly expect anyone to show you respect? Atop of this, … You are raving mad!» He sat back. «Be off from my sight unless you can keep quiet with your nonsense.»

That was enough. «I am not a child!» Sick declared and leaned over the table in the same manner, trying to catch Saruman's eyes. «And I am not mad, my Lord.» She got up from her chair. «I am, in some way, affected. But there is nothing wrong with me, and I am still myself.»

«Why yes. I recall one of your names, now. You are Sick!» said Saruman and laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh, and Sick felt chills mix with her anger.

«I will retreat now, if you don't mind,» she said calmly and turned towards the door.

But as she grabbed the handle, Saruman said behind her: «I do mind.»

She half turned and looked at him. «Before you go,» he continued slowly, «you shall tell me why Sauron could not affect you, as he could've done every single other living and thinking being in this world.»

«But I don't know.» Sick grabbed the back of her chair and pushed it into the table. «I could guess, though, that it's the same reason I reacted to your voice-spell the way I did earlier. … I presume you didn't intend _that_ to happen!»

«We do not speak about that. Tell me what you felt.»

Sick giggled. «Oh. It felt as if I was in love with you. Isn't --»

«About Sauron! Focus, Elf!» Saruman barked and closed his books with a thump. Sick became bewildered and imagined that Saruman blushed, just a little -- but when she noticed Shaka react she realised it was her own wishing. Saruman's cheeks were as pale as ever. «Uh. Well, … I felt his mood. I think I perceived what he couldn't keep from me. It seems irrational that he knew my thoughts, and I could know nothing of his. He knew my name.» She coughed. «Names.»

«What did he say to you?»

Sick was still standing behind her chair. She sat. «Well, nothing, really. He was aggressive; kept demanding my business at Isengard. I tried to tell him I didn't want to meddle in your affairs at all, but I'm not sure he heard me.»

«He did,» said Saruman, away in his own thoughts. Sick remained quiet for a while.

Then she asked: «Lord. How can the Palantiri transmit images? And sound … Wait no, -- it didn't transmit sound, … but _thoughts_. How?»

«It is a Middle-Earth mystery,» said Saruman. «You would need to ask Fëanor himself!»

But Sick surprised herself saying: «I just assumed it was radio waves, but that doesn't explain thought transmission.»

What did she just say? Sick blinked.

«What nonsense are you saying?» Saruman scoffed.

Sick was about to reply _I don't know_, but she suddenly appreciated the fact that this was something she'd leeched from _Shaka's_ knowledge pool. And Shaka didn't even seem to notice; she could certainly do nothing about it! So Sick _was_ in charge of her own mind …! What a relieving realisation! Another notion occurred to Sick: The things she suddenly knew made such perfect sense. Perfect.

«Radio waves. They transmit through air and can be coded into sound or images,» she informed with complete confidence. «By, say, Palantiri, if they are constructed for encoding and displaying waves.»

Saruman stared as if she was mad.

But there was a hint of interest in his stare.

«Elf,» he said. «First of all. Nothing can transmit through air. Air is nothingness. You understand that.»

«Wait, no. _Space_ is nothingness!» said Sick, «Air is gases. Radio waves aren't matter, they're waves, like ripples on water; energy on the move.» She was about to say that radio and sound waves behaved similarly, but reckoned that this would be too much.

«Tell me then, if you're so clever,» said Saruman in a voice so scornful that it could've curdled milk. «What is it with air, and its _gases_ … That can transmit waves.»

«It is air that's matter,» said Sick. «But its gaseous phase obviously differ from solid or liquid matter; it is much less condensed. The air is a mixture of gases which in essence are merely molecules darting about.» She stopped, realising that Saruman, no matter how brilliant he may be, might have difficulties grasping this. But meeting his stare she could still see the glint of interest behind his scorn. Did he really understand? That was impressive, considering that this wasn't something he would take for granted, like Sick did-- … no, like _Shaka_ did.

«Say, molecules.» Saruman actually chuckled. Suddenly Sick couldn't place if he was interested or just amused.

«Yes, they're compositions of atoms,» said Sick. «And the atoms are building blocks for all kinds of matter. Like this wine bottle.» Sick grabbed the neck of a half-full wine bottle standing on the table, lifted it and put it back down. «The wine inside it. These parchments,» she gestured towards the parchments on the table in front of her. «The quill in your hand, the bird it came from, the tree it nested in, the earth it grew from. You, my Lord, and myself!»

«You mean to say that I am made out of molecules.»

«Doesn't it make perfect sense, my Lord? Look, --»

«No,» interrupted Saruman. «Elf. Your mad ramblings are unlike anything. But you seem to have developed a skewed sense of logic in your nonsense nevertheless. Run off to the second floor and fetch a bottle of wine, and I shall let you continue with this until you tire me. For my amusement.»

Sick brightened up. «Very well!» she sang and was off in an instant.

Minutes later she was back, three bottles of wine in her arms, her pipe in her mouth and a big smile on her face, eyes bright violet.

This was going to be interesting.


	6. CHAPTER VI of Wine, Weed and Orc Manure

**CHAPTER VI _of Wine, Weed and Orc Manure_**

The next morning Sick woke with a headache.

She sat up and caused an explosion of pain in her head. Sick moaned loudly, rubbing her temples. Sunlight beamed in through the windows and created bright patterns on the floor -- Valar, it was past noon! What in the name of Elbereth happened last night?

She crept out of her bed and tottered across to her wardrobe. There she changed into the most comfortable dress she could find, slipped out of her room and up all the tower staircases.

The floortop was sunny but comfortably freezing, piercing winds rushing from the snow-clad peaks of the Misty Mountains and fluffing up her raven hair. She sat in the middle of the circle and drew her breath. Her head cleared up. Sick sighed; _oh yes_. Now she remembered.

Lying down she savoured the wind sweeping over her body. She had told Saruman about the knowledge she had leeched from that dratted Shaka-creature: about time there came some symbiosis from their forced relationship! Nuclear science. She couldn't place whether she understood it herself, or if she leeched the comprehension from Shaka as well. She felt dumb and smart at the same time, -- but in her heart, she knew that she actually was dumb. It didn't bother her.

The whole affair had developed into amusement for Sick's part when all came to all. Because Saruman knew, after she had drawn a whole roll of parchment and explained the science of one physical phenomenon after another, that it was true, and still he refused to acknowledge it.

He redeemed himself in an elegant way, of course, even before Sick began to assume he actually believed her mad talk at all. With a sentence or so -- she couldn't remember exactly what he'd said -- he had ascribed her new amount of knowledge to the mystery of her forgotten knowledge, just like that.

Afterwards he'd showed some interest in her ramblings. She realised that she hadn't even noticed that transition. What a magician with minds, moods and situations he was! … always in control of his own dignity. Even in the small hours, when he put the wine on the table (probably out of habit); he must've had more than twice the amount she drank, and yet -- when Sick had the room spinning and blotched black ink on the parchment, there was no difference in Saruman's behaviour whatsoever. He had smiled at some point, she recalled. A cold little smile it was. But it came from somewhere inside and reached his eyes, she had made him smile; he'd smiled at her! Wine was such a miracle.

So even though Sick remembered little from last night, she did recall that. And that his teeth were even; what a peculiar thing to notice. Had he perhaps magicked them to be? What old men had even teeth, anyway? Saruman seemed extremely vain. Hair always sleek, clothes always gleaming white, and nails … There must be _somebody_ taking care of his nails. They're flawless. On the whole he's well groomed indeed.

So. Recalling once more: She'd been telling about things which led her into the field of molecular biology. Saruman was quite attentive at this point -- but as midnight became morning, Sick's eyelids became heavy, and at some points she was half-asleep. The next thing she knew was Saruman offering a goblet of wine. Probably to keep her awake.

Oh, and that's where the headache originated from. That dangerous Elvish wine; red, rich and deliciously sweet. She'd politely asked for more and he'd permit her -- something he most likely regretted later: Sick ended up on the floor when the last drop was gone.

From the point where the fourth wine bottle appeared there was no more talk of mitochondria and endoplasmic reticulum, obviously. Sick remembered faintly that Saruman was extremely annoyed in the end -- but it could also have been because she asked why Aulë would hide away a treasure like himself in a dark tower like this. Instantly, she slapped her forhead and groaned as an immense pain blossomed in her head: _Why_ had she said _that?_

At long last he'd escorted her to her room. Although escorted; from what Sick recalled in glimpses he'd rather half-carried her. She had been laughing and chattering, perhaps singing too, and she couldn't remember half of the things she'd said. Valar. The sweet bliss of ignorance! Sick groaned and sat up.

And realized how thirsty she was. Her throat was as dry as dusty parchment. Standing up and staggering back into the tower, she mused: _Now._ Where to find drinking water? She went to the library to find Saruman, but he wasn't there. Sick had rather not go looking for him.

But he was the one who occasionally brought her some food and water before. Increasingly desperate she went through the towers and peered into every unlocked room (not many), until she ended up at ground level.

She tried to focus in the candlelight, turned her head and noticed a small staircase going down to her right.

She hadn't seen that the day she came, had she?

It seemed to be another way into the basement. What was it, a passageway for Orcs or guards? Now. Under normal circumstances, she'd never walk into a place where Orcs might lurk. But she'd never been so thirsty in her life. So she walked down the staircase, opened the door and found herself in the beginning of a narrow hallway.

It was arched and lit by torches. In the far end was another door. Sick closed the entrance behind her and walked towards the exit, realizing that these halls were frequently trodden. There were no dust on the floors. Did Saruman go here to check on his armies?

The exit led into a spiralling downward staircase. No smell of Orcs was in the air as of yet, but that didn't reassure Sick the slightest. She proceeded down very cautiously, sniffing the air and agonizing over her dry throat: What if she collapsed down here, -- or got kidnapped by Orcs? What if Saruman found her months later as a dried-out skeleton? She shuddered. That would be horrible. Another door appeared in the dark, and no Orcs could be smelt. On the contrary Sick imagined she felt another scent; pleasant, but she couldn't place it.

She opened the door.

As soon as her eyes adjusted, she gawped like an idiot.

It was a wine cellar!

She couldn't believe her luck! Being unable to find water, wine was just fine! Sick did, in fact, desire more for wine than anything anyway, and the wonderful heavy smell of oak and old red wine in the enveloping air soothed her senses and headache. The room was dim. The walls were lined by shelves of bottles and the area was so filled with organized rows of shelves and barrels of wine and ale that she couldn't even determine the size of the room. …Where to start?

Sick wondered if Saruman was here often. Obviously; he must be the only one using this cellar; she couldn't readily imagine any Orcs helping themselves down here. The mere thought made her snort with laughter. No, wine was a sophisticated matter.

Some of the bottles, and especially the older, had no label. Most were marked Elvish or Gondorian. Sick found Old Vineyard from the Shire. And lo, the dustiest labelled bottle she could find, was Numenórean!

She looked hesitantly about for something to open the Numenórean bottle. In a dark corner, atop a larger and oddly shaped standing barrel, lay a device. She took the wine opener and stared curiously at the barrel, the Numenórean bottle of wine in her one hand: That thing couldn't possibly contain wine, could it? Sick tried to remove the lid, and it came easily came off.

A sweet and very pleasant scent rose from the contents. Sick peered inside. _Pipe-weed!_

She chuckled and reached within. Her head was inside the barrel before her hand reached the contents, but sadly, only one fourth was left. So this was Saruman's main store of weed. Good to know, now that she was allowed free access to his fine grass! She started when her hand touched something solid down there, and out from the barrel she took a beautiful black elongated wooden pipe with a pattern of wrought silver strings embedded into it, -- much similar to her own, but finer. Valar. She had to smoke right now just to use this wonderful item.

And so it came to pass that Saruman discovered her a few hours later; a soldier had alerted the tower claiming that the wine cellar was being haunted: he'd heard high-pitched singing straight through the stone walls! The cellar was indeed haunted, but not by anything dangerous. When Saruman came down there and opened the door, a sweet-smelling cloud of smoke from his finest pipe-weed welled over him, and in the corner, upon a barrel, perched that damned creature, singing merrily with a bottle of wine in her one hand and the finest pipe in the other.

It turned out she wasn't particularly drunk, because the sweet wine of her choice was quite weak. But the pipe-weed had turned her head, and though she had a wonderful relaxed and content feeling throughout her entire self, she felt funny. And she was in a particularly good mood.

«Sharuman!» she cheered when his silhouette filled the doorway. «I found your wonderful--» she coughed, «--_herbsh._»

«Indeed,» he sneered as he approached.

«Oh. Saruman, my Lord,» she said when his tall figure loomed over her. She couldn't make out his features in the semi-darkness, but his eyes were glinting nastily. «You're the only one who gave me a chance. You have a good heart.» She giggled, turned serious yet again, raised her bottle and said: «You're my only frieee--!» Before she could finish, the lid of the pipe-weed barrel gave away, and in an instant she was stuck. «… Friend,» she piped, looking confused.

«_Elf._» Saruman's voice was low and deadly poisonous.

He paused and stared at the ridiculous creature, stuck as she was in the pipe-weed barrel. «I do not recall giving you permission to enter the wine cellar.»

«But I didn't find you, Lord,» she retorted. «And I was so thirsty that you wouldn't _believe_ it.»

«Oh, I would,» he sneered. «You know the rules, Elf! Consider this! The fact that your encounter with Sauron took an unexpected turn does _not_ mean that you can do as you please while staying in my residence. Watch your words and actions. As I very well could deny your use of the library. Do I make myself clear?»

She stared fearfully at him, her irises azure but eyes quite red.

«Sorry,» she said meekly.

He said nothing.

«Uh,» she began and gave him an insistent look, «Um. … Could you help me?»

Saruman turned and walked towards the exit.

Sick dropped the bottle and it clattered to the floor. «Please!» she cried, exasperated. «Lord! _I'm stuck!_»

He stopped and half-turned, giving her an annoyed glance. She returned the most pleading look she could manage. That didn't seem to impress him -- so she exclaimed, in a lower and more serious note now: «Please!»

A glint in the wizard's eyes suggested that his mind was working. And thank Valar, he turned and came back. Sick sighed in relief as he bent down.

Then she went: «But my! … No! Not _that_ way!» Saruman pulled the barrel out of the corner, lifted it up and flipped it upside down. The stoned Elf flumped out and hit the stone floor with a nasty crack, the remaining pipe-weed flowing out of the barrel, covering her neatly in a thick layer of dry weed and dust.

«Good.» Saruman placed the barrel in its corner and stood in front of Sick, giving her an arrogant but quite amused look. «You will pick up every little leaf and grain of dust belonging to that barrel. Afterwards -- that would be tonight -- I expect you in the library.»

«The library?» said the pile of pipe-weed by his feet. «But --»

«In case you won't feel fit to continue your ramblings,» said Saruman; «… that is, after this tedious assignment, which presumably will take hours upon hours …» He bent down and grabbed her dirty hair so that he could meet her eyes; «… I _will_ see you in the library.»

He rose, turned and walked out, his billowing clothes whirling leaves about. Sick sighed -- then coughed. «Sadist,» she muttered when the sound of his high-heeled footsteps left the staircase.

But Sick did pick up every grain of dust belonging to the pipe-weed barrel. And she did in fact go to the library. She would let a Man die if she could only retreat to her room instead and sleep for the remainder of the day and night, her hair full of dust, eyes red and swollen and a headache from another dimension ravaging her head -- but that was simply not an option.

She went, pondering on how she could explain the structure and function of DNA. She didn't consider going deliberately against Saruman's word. At this point, matters had finally flipped over in the peculiar relationship between the Elf and wizard: Sick was no longer in the position in which Saruman was harmless. He had -- perhaps knowingly, perhaps not -- finally gained enough of her affection to be in complete dominance of her.

How a man can achieve this by treating a women like the Orc manure stuck under his shoe is yet another mystery of the universal female mind.


	7. CHAPTER VII of Unwelcome Visitors

**CHAPTER VII _of Unwelcome Visitors_**

One of these days Saruman set Sick to move the remaining pipe-weed barrels from the wine cellar into the second-level storeroom, and she was labouring with this one spring morning, before the sun had risen. It had apparently not crossed Saruman's mind that putting some lithe Elf girl to do a Man's heavy labour might be inappropriate; he seemed to consider Sick as free working power simply because she was there. In actual fact: Saruman seemed to consider Sick more and more as his property.

Sick didn't mind. Or, she didn't grasp the realities. She sang as she was toiling with the barrels. Her voice resounded through the tower accompanied with the thudding of the barrels, as she dragged them up the stairs, rolled them through the dark corridors and heaved them in place. Every now and then she took a break and had a pipe from the very best Longbottom leaf. Wearing a pair of riding trousers that she'd found in her wardrobes, she felt most comfortable.

But by sunrise, just as she was putting in place one of the last barrels, right below the only window in the storeroom, something happened that she didn't expect: A Man approached her, one of Saruman's Southeners. Suddenly he stood behind her. Sick choked on her singing and jumped when she almost ran straight into the tall creature. «I say, my Lady!» exclaimed the Man (or sooner boy-Man; he was not very old).

He came into the light from the window, and Sick recognized him: It was one of the gate guards; not the leader, but one of those who guarded her that day she came. «Uh--» Sick began, and laughed nervously. «I'm sorry. I didn't see you.»

«My mistake, Lady, I didn't mean to startle you. But I heard your most lovely singing.» Sick noticed with curiosity that he spoke differently. Studying his face discreetly she determined that this had to be the least greasy of them, however. At least he was polite. She was about to move past him, -- but a barrel blocked the way.

«My voice is really nothing particular,» said Sick.

«I have never heard its like. … Oh, I apologise, Lady! I'm blocking your way! Please.» The boy stepped aside, and Sick snuck past him. «Well,» she replied. «They say Elves have more of a tradition with songs than Men do.»

«Elves,» echoed the human. He sat down on a standing barrel, relaxed; he appeared increasingly charming. «My Lady. Are you an Elf?»

«These ears indicate so.»

«I must say, I never heard of smoking Elves!»

«To every rule there must be an exception,» replied Sick.

«And you certainly are one. Let us have a pipe together, shall we. Come! Sit with me!» He patted the neighbouring barrel with his hand and gave a friendly smile.

Sick didn't mind; she went over and jumped up on the barrel.

«What a beautiful pipe,» the boy said when Sick took her pipe out. «May I know your name, Lady?»

«My name is Silmariël.»

«I'm Bert. Very pleased, lady Silmariël. You knew Lord Saruman after all!» Bert took a small tinderbox from his pocket, filled both pipes and helped Sick lit hers. «They talk about it, you know,» he chuckled. «They wonder if our Lord finally found a lady to keep the house.»

«They are wrong, whoever they are,» said Sick dryly. «Though I do keep his house sometimes.» She didn't elaborate and Bert didn't ask.

They smoked in silence for a while, Sick catching occasional glances from the human. It made her stir incomfortably. What did he want, really Shaka yelled in the back of her mind, but Sick wouldn't dare let her through.

«They say Elves are very different from regular people,» said Bert at last, thoughtfully.

«Well. I wouldn't know.»

«It's very much true, lady Silmariël,» said Bert. He was studying her openly but looked solemn. He said: «Regular women's skin is darkened by the sun. Not milky white like yours. It's hardened by work. Not so fine.» He touched her arm. Sick didn't do anything, but she felt chills of discomfort run down her spine all the way from neck to tail.

«Their hair is sparse. And sometimes yellow, like straw,» Bert continued. «But Elven hair is not like that.» He smiled kindly and took a lock of her hair, running his fingers through it. «Never so rich and dark. And their smell--»

That was enough.

«I have work to do,» affirmed Sick and jumped off the barrel.

«But lady!» Bert exclaimed and ran after her into the main hall.

He grabbed her by the arm. «Lady, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to alarm you!»

«Alarm! I'm not easily alarmed,» said Sick. «_You_ are another matter! Unless Saruman specifically ordered you to be here, I advise you leave the tower.»

«But Saruman didn't order a single matter today.»

Sick turned. There, in the upward staircase doorway, appeared Saruman himself: tall as a tree and clad in gleaming white, maybe a little morning drowsy (though only Sick would notice that). The wizard looked wistfully past the Elf and set his eyes in the boy.

«My Lord!» cried Bert, «I just --»

«You just helped yourself to my finest pipe-weed, as well as to my guest; so I see,» interrupted Saruman, most calmly. He stood pondering for a while. And Sick felt her blood chill: She could see in Saruman's dark eyes that he was cooking up something nasty.

«My Lord--»

«Quiet,» sneered Saruman and walked into the hall. Sick tried to become invisible with the walls as she observed. Nothing seemed to happen, though: The wizard approached Bert, put his long hand around his neck (the human was stupefied), and elevated him ten centimeters from the floor; -- Saruman muttered some well-chosen words -- Sick couldn't catch them -- then released him.

The boy slumped together in a heap.

Saruman kicked him, not too hard. His shoes were indeed high-heeled, and white. «Get up.»

Bert got to his feet in an instant.

«You foolish child! Remove yourself from my residence at once!»

Bert turned and vanished down the staircase.

In the corner, behind a tall candleholder, Sick sighed: «I was so worried you would kill him for trespassing!»

«What are you imagining!» Saruman snorted. «Get out from there! Would I not punish a minion for breaking the rules?»

Sick came out from the corner. «But you only seemed to say him a few words, my Lord!»

Saruman chuckled, and it sounded terrible. «He will go mad. Slowly. And most likely he'll commit suicide, unless he is murdered first.»

Sick gaped like a fish, speechless.

For the first time, Saruman had said something she wouldn't approve of.

«But--!» she stammered, wide-eyed. Then -- acting before thinking -- she ran up to him and grabbed his robes, yelling into his face: «_That is cruel!_ Why did you not punish him another way? If you had to murder him, why didn't you do it right away? That boy wasn't evil! He was only dumb!»

Saruman stared calmly until she let go.

«Because,» he said slowly. «I have, unlike you, imagination. I need to be a strategist on all levels. Think, Elf! This way the boy will live to tell, then die in due time. Everybody will understand why, and most importantly, _remember_ and _learn_. Keep that in mind.»

Sick hadn't fully grasped the extent of Saruman's cruelty before this. (She still really hadn't, even afterwards.)

One night she thought she heard somebody screaming, at the hour Saruman's war machine was asleep, and it made her skin creep. But at the same time she troubled herself by admiring Saruman's sense of strategy and commandment, -- no matter how strict he had chosen to be.

So it was, that the sunny morning Saruman had planned up towards: the day he had decided to unleash the entirety of his armies (he hadn't heeded Sick's hunch of sending them out three days earlier), Sick opened the window in the storeroom on the second level of Orthanc and scanned Isengard for a sight of the unfortunate boy.

The sight out there was unbelievable. First of all, Isengard was a vast area, seeming even larger from such a low level in the tower. Saruman had been out for days straight before this, and by now the commanders had lined up their troops, they were waiting eagerly to be released, their spears and swords and shields glinting in the sun, drums and horns and wild cheering sounding from each corner of the vale, Sick had never seen anything like this, -- and they were so many more than she had expected! But still, no sight of Bert. That was it, then. He was dead.

Sick's window faced south, and she spotted Saruman next to the gates as they opened. Of course he'd prefer to watch every soldier leave. Sick didn't know anything of the details about his assault, that is, what and who he attacked and why, but obviously it was an important part of Saruman's plot.

… Her train of thoughts was suddenly interrupted.

Just as the last troops left, a crack resounded from the gates. Nothing was to be seen -- no. Wait. A cloud of dust rose from behind; behind the very walls of Isengard. Sick stretched her neck and strained her eyes, -- and far back there, behind the dust-cloud, she saw a herd of huge tree-crowns. «_Aa!_» she screamed in alarm when a earthquake ripped through Isengard and shook the foundations of Orthanc itself; she could feel the windowsill vibrate beneath her hands.

Although earthquake: It was very local, and caused by a horde of raging, walking trees! It hit Sick like a bomb to the head: _The tree-herders. _She'd already warned Saruman. What foolishness! He had cut down their woods -- and the tree-herders would prove the end of his schemes!

She drew back from the window and peered around its sill. One of the Ents had breached through, and the speeding little white figure it seemed to be chasing, it had to be --

«_Saaarumaaan!!_» screamed Sick. She heaved herself around, ran towards the exit, met the door with a nasty crack (so much for Elven grace), chased out seeing stars and planets and flew down the stairs.

Reaching ground level she used both hands to turn the enormous key in the lock. After hauling the huge rings for a minute, however, she realized that she'd just locked the doors instead of unlocking them. And would you look at that: as soon as she managed to unlock the doors, the one slid open with the most ridiculous ease.

At the same time Saruman hit it and sent Sick flying; she slid along the slippery floor and hit her head in the opposite wall. Everything went black for a moment, but seconds later she was back up and put her full weight onto the door to shut it. While Sick slammed it shut, Saruman turned the key. It wasn't a second to soon. Only moments later an unbelievable chaos broke loose around them.

«Saruman!» Sick yelled through the pandemonium of giant trees roaring and hurling themselves against the Orthanc walls. Now and then new earthquakes would shake its foundations and send anything wildly about which wasn't tied up; Sick and Saruman certainly wasn't -- but then Saruman didn't seem to be perfectly conscious. Sick saw him flump together in a heap of white hair and robes. «Saruman!» she cried and grabbed the back of his clothes. «Did they hurt you!»

«Be off, Elf, or I'll put you out there,» sneered Saruman. So he was in perfect shape, only exhausted from the run! «Oh!» Sick cried happily. «Thank goodness! Nothing is wrong with you at all!» And in the middle of this senseless situation, Sick laughed and gave the wizard a hug.

That would be the last she remembered. The next moment she only assumed that the Ents had broken in. A solid metal candle holder skid over and hit her over the head -- knocking her out cold.

And maybe that was a good thing.


	8. CHAPTER VIII of Stoners and Devastation

_Sliven__ (3): I know. He's right around the corner. Thanks - as you see, I took down the prologue. It was unnecessarily confusing._

_Milly (Black Traitor of Isengard) (7): But I do give him justice! I'm flattered you like it. Did you manage to read the entirety, seeing as it lacks the seks scenes? Heheh. It's gonna snow in hell before I write smut. Only a very few writers have that particular gift._ You, amongst them.

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**CHAPTERVIII_ of Stoners and Devastation_**

She awoke in her room.

Sick revisited the pain of a major hangover, multiplied by ten. Moaning loudly she sat up and touched the back of her head - discovering a bump the size of a dung beetle. Valar. How did _this_ happen?

_Oh. _She was knocked out! There was the commotion with the tree-herders, and - Sweet Elbereth. Had _Saruman_ knocked her out? Sick's insides went cold.

Wait, no. She fell on top of Saruman. _Then_ the blow came- to the back of her head. Something hard must've hit her in the chaos. Sick's hair was dry and there was no blood on her fingers, so it couldn't be all that bad. Rising from her bed she noticed that she was wearing Saruman's clothes.

She literally jumped in surprise and emitted a high-pitched squeak.

_Enough!_ She needed some air.

This was insane! She ran to the other side of the room and stopped abruptly. There were the white curtains with Saruman's cirth rune on them; they were half open. What. She'd always assumed there were windows behind them.

Flinging them apart, she found a balcony.

«_Haah,_» Sick sighed when she opened the ornamented doors and felt a warm breeze against her face. It didn't help her headache, though. Standing there, she wondered what Saruman was doing. Was he knocked out, too? Or was it he who had brought her here? Or his guards, who had mistakenly dressed her up in his clothes? No! It didn't make sense. Sick laid her hands on the iron rail.

That's when she heard something behind her. She turned her head.

«You're awake,» said Saruman, towering in the doorway. «Silmariël.»

«Um!» Sick began- but she went quiet when he suddenly stood close to her; so close she could almost feel his warmth. She looked up, bewildered. Saruman looked straight down at her. His face was all of a sudden so kind! She noticed how his eyebrows were completely black whereas his hair was silver and wondered how that could be- but this was something she mused upon to keep her mind occupied. He slid his long hand around her shoulder, and she shivered.

«Don't speak, Silmariël,» he bade, and his deep voice so close to her ear turned her head so that she couldn't speak if she wanted to. She was utterly baffled that he called her Silmariël, and secondly; well, she didn't think further; Saruman pulled her close with his one arm and put the other hand around her neck. With that, Sick was pretty much lost. «_Saruman …!_» she crooned. She put her head to his chest and stared at him in shining adoration. What scent he cave off; like pipe-weed and dusty books, and his hair, so soft against her skin-

… It all came to a very quick end.

«_Elf!_» someone shouted.

Sick woke with a heavy start and yelled in pain as her brain seemed to writhe inside her skull. She blinked. Sweet Varda. It was a dream. A dream! She looked up and stared straight at Saruman through a curtain of her own black hair.

«_Valar! Tíra nin!_» she squeaked and hid herself under the bedsheets. The pain, confusion and rude awakening was overwhelming.

«Get hold of yourself,» Saruman sneered, and by the next moment he'd ripped off her sheet and tossed it back on the bed. She looked up. He stood there, towering, staring contemptuously at her as always. Nothing unusual at all, except he held a silver goblet in his hands. «Firstly,» he said. «I want to know why your room was locked.»

«Huh?» Sick articulated. She thought back. Oh. Yes. The previous day she'd found an iron key in one of her drawers which fitted her lock. «I locked it,» she said. «There were black fingerprints on the dresses in my wardrobe. I was afraid someone had been there. So I locked my room, just to be sure.»

«Where is the key?»

Sick fumbled a few seconds with the belt of her dress. «Here!» She held it up.

Saruman snatched it and put it away.

Then he looked up, and sighed. «Elf,» he said. «Nobody would enter your room but yourself. It is your guestroom, assigned so by me. If any of my guards would trespass, they would do so under penalty of death.»

«But the fingerprints …!»

« Came from yourself, you foolish child! You always spill ink when drawing or writing. Your hands are black every single night. What do you expect.»

«So … where am I …?»

Sick went silent and looked around. This chamber was huge, more than twice the size of hers, and decorated with dark wood and wrought metal to form Saruman's cirth and the White Hand. Curtains, bed sheets, walls, were white. She was in _his_ room.

«… Oh.» Sick blushed. «I apologise, my Lord, I … wasn't thinking. I'll just be -» she let her feet to the floor, «- on my way then. - _Uh!_» Her pained brain protested wildly as she tried to rise, and without force in her legs she slumped back like a sack of beans. The back of her head met the ornamented wood panel with a thump.

That was it. The pain overwhelmed Sick and nauseated her, and she began to cry spontaneously, like a wounded animal.

Saruman looked at her for a while, pondering.

Then he put the goblet down in a windowsill, picked up the sheet he'd discarded, bent and heaved the Elf's legs gruffly back up, and sat down on the edge, looking down at her.

«I want you to listen,» he said. His voice was low. «I would've had you moved down to your guest chamber, but you're in a terrible condition. So. You shall stay. Elf …-» He paused. Sick tried to be silent and stared at him, eyes large and leaky. Saruman tossed the sheet on top of her. «Elf. I would have been dead if you had not been at the doors. I saw you at the storeroom window. It was quick thinking, and I accredit you that.»

He took the goblet from the windowsill. «I cannot disregard what you chose to do for me. That you will observe. However. You are still capable of annoying me like nothing else. I will therefore attempt to teach you how to behave around me, in a manner which I can tolerate.»

«I will try not to annoy you, my Lord,» sniffed Sick.

«Very good. Here, drink this, it will make you fall asleep. I shall keep the windows open. You will feel better in a matter of hours only.» Saruman handed her the goblet and Sick drank the warm and sweet content straight.

«Oh. This tasted just lovely,» Sick mumbled to herself. Then she closed her eyes - and slept as if dead. A mindless deep sleep it was, without trace of pains or dangerous dreams.

Later. Closer to nightfall, just as Saruman was having (his first) evening pipe of weed on the Watcher Room balcony, Sick approached.

She came patting on bare feet and probably gave him a good start, though he'd never let that shine through. He moved spontaneously away when she appeared on his side, peering up at him, the beautiful pipe in her mouth and a wine bottle in each hand. «Now what,» said Saruman and glanced over her.

«What?»

The wizard chuckled. «You are barely _decent_, woman.»

«What?» Sick stared, bewildered. Then she looked down. Her dress was simple, fastened around her chest and back and with a pale red, light fabric flowing all the way down to her feet; - what was inappropriate? She tried to explain. «But it's just my nightgown. I'm ill, I just wanted to smoke a little to ease the headache. Here!» She handed him a bottle.

He accepted it and leaned slightly on the rail. «Well,» he said, thoughtful, head bent. «I assume you are feeling better.»

«I am. Much better! The bump is almost gone!»

«Good.»

He went silent, looking down into the pit.

«So I … _Oh_,» Sick exclaimed as she finally peered over the rail as well and laid her eyes on the utter chaos filling the entirety of Isengard. Sweet mother of goodness … She gripped her wine bottle tightly and absorbed the impressions in the semi-darkness. Impossible.

First of all, the Ents had crumbled the Walls of Isengard to pebbles. All parts of Saruman's constructions and designs were destroyed, all his machinery crushed to pieces, and on top: All was flooded. Seemingly the water had filled the underground arrangements as well. It had collected in a dirty puddle around the foot of Orthanc like a minute lake washing about in vorteces, occasionally spewing out clouds of steam.

« Sweet Valar,» muttered Sick. «They … Oh. I see. They've flooded the Isen.»

«Perceptive.»

Sick saw creatures moving about down there, but there was no chance of making out their features in the settling darkness.

They smoked in silence. Sick drank from the bottle.

«Saruman,» Sick said. «You had several Ents killed. Why?»

«They attacked Isengard. Did you notice?» was his poisonous reply.

Sick stared down and gripped the rail. Keeping everything she wanted to say in, she channeled her mixed emotions into her wine bottle (that is, rather vice versa), finishing it off at an impressive rate. She threw the bottle over the rail and far out, whereupon she burped and slammed her hand in the rail in a rude, wordless protest.

Saruman didn't even flinch.

And that, finally, made Sick realize that there was so much more beneath that calm white surface.

She peered up. He was standing there, so still, both manicured hands on the rail, the untouched wine bottle supported in one hand, the now burnt-out pipe in his mouth. If it wasn't for his hair stirring in the low wind he'd appeared a statue with clothes. Saruman stared out in the darkness- but not down into the pit. It was as if he was dreaming about something. His eyes were half-closed and his breath slow; in fact, the wizard looked as if he was thinking something in the lines of _oh, there went all my labour from the last several decades - How very unfortunate! _

Suddenly Sick realized how much he'd actually lost.

«I cannot believe how calm you are,» she said quietly.

«I'm not.»

«Take some more pipe-weed!» Sick offered him her pouch. «I'd like to swap with your wine,» she added in a joke, chuckling. Saruman gave her the wine bottle but didn't touch her weed.

Since he was only standing there anyway, Sick figured that he'd probably prefer company - any company - to avoid being alone like this. She couldn't understand his ways, so she didn't bother trying. Half-way down into his bottle of strong and dry wine, however, and after three more pipes, she understood much, much less. «_Sarumaaan!_» she sang and hugged his arm. She had a giggle fit and needed time much to recover. «Do you know what you and I and Sauron have in common?» She snorted with laughter. «We're all _stoned!_»

Saruman didn't find this remotely as funny as she did- but to anticipate what he deemed worthy of response was difficult indeed. «_Stoned!_ What are you babbling about?» he demanded.

«Stoned, you know,» said Sick. «You get stoned when you smoke pipe-weed. That means we're stoned. You and I. Me and you.»

«This is part of your red-eyed speak. You are not making sense.»

«No! Yes! It's merely a description of the state in which you'll find yourself after smoking pipe-weed!» insisted Sick.

But Saruman argumented. «There is no _state_, Elf. And there are no means by which _Sauron_ can be affected. He has no mouth, and certainly no lungs.»

«True!» Sick assented. «But!» She put her finger in the air and turned, toddling back into the Watcher Room. Saruman peered unconcerned over his shoulder as the Elf approached the pillar and pointed straight to the Palantír. «Sauron is inside a stone! So, he is stoned!»

Saruman snorted.

Sick walked up to him and prepared to make more jokes now that he'd finally decided to be more receptive.

But before she opened her mouth, Saruman turned and walked out. He dropped his pipe on the floor - but didn't stop to pick it up. Sick ventured to speak but thought better of it.

There was something about him that suddenly made her so incredibly sad.

She picked up his pipe, tucked it away in the fastening of her dress and closed the balcony doors before retreating from the room.

She walked quite a curve around the Watcher. There was a swirling glow inside of it that filled her with cold anticipation- straight through her clouded drunken mind.

In a more sober state Sick would certainly have heeded that little sign.


	9. CHAPTER IX of Pure Evil

**CHAPTER IX _of Pure Evil_**

Sick didn't remember how she'd managed to find back to her room. Arriving there, the mystery of how the door could be unlocked escaped her. She reeled inside clutching every stationary object, focused on her lovely bed and hit it with a flump, -- her thoughts, accidentally, circling about the matter of Saruman. She was asleep in an instant and caught up in lively dreams.

But she was drunk, and careless, and beyond all self-control. At the back of her mind was Shaka.

«Sick! _Sick!_» Shaka called.

Sick lifted her head from the pillow. «_Fhnuh?_»

Shaka lay on her side just next to Sick, one hand supporting her head and the other half-stretchedtowards the Elf. Her nails were like small talons. There was a smug smile on her face; her mouth which had an anatomically pouty appearance was curling upwards in the very edges, giving the creature the appearance of a devil. «Drunk, are we?» she drawled, slanting her already narrow eyes.

«_Haah!_» replied Sick, reeling her head, eyes only half-open. «Look at your bottom!» she giggled. «It's huge!»

Shaka's bottom was indeed very large. She sat up swiftly, crouching on her feet, her head lowered. The next thing Sick knew was a stinging slap across her cheek.

«_Aii!_» she screeched. «_You hit me!_ You, you--»

«_Shut your face!_» sneered Shaka.

«That _hurt! _How could you hit me!»

Shaka slapped her again, harder. «You're gonna treat me with respect!» she hissed, and this time Sick cringed against the bed panel. «I'm more than you think! I'm not gonna bother you as long as you heed what I want. And you know what I want!»

«How can you say that!» piped up Sick. «It was you who made me realize that I … _I like Saruman!_»

«Wrong, airhead. I just saw the signs and warned you. You could've pulled yourself outta this mess long ago, yet you didn't.»

«Mess? Saruman never did anything to hurt me,» protested Sick.

«He will! So soon! I see so much farther than you, little girl. Saruman will _never _love a baby like you. He'll hurt you! In fact, that creep's gonna be the death of you!»

«Death? _Never!_ I'll block you out! I won't listen to you and your … big bottom!» yelled Sick, -- and whimpered when Shaka slapped her again. «_You shall do as I say!_» screamed Shaka; her face was so close to Sick's she could feel her breath, -- and her eyes, those eyes …

Sick stared straight into Shaka's eyes.

«Oh, I see,» she said.

She paused and straightened up. «Well this explains _everything_. That's why your eyes are like that! That's why _my_ eye color changes! That's why I didn't react to Sauron as other people would! And that's why I didn't react to Saruman's voice the way I should have!» She sat up and pushed Shaka violently backwards, pointed at her and shouted: «_You are Sauron!_ And you are in my head!»

«How can you be so _dumb!_» cried Shaka. «You _know_ that I'm from outside! I'm not part of this sick world!» But her voice drowned in Sick's as the Elf plunged forward and put her fist to Shaka's nose.

«Be off, devil! Get out of my head! Get out, get _out!_»

Sick woke trashing about in her bed, sweating like a pig and intertwined in bedsheets damper than used towels.

The next moment she was stumbling out of her room, head spinning. This was ending _now_.

Bursting into the Watcher Room Sick slammed the doors and sped towards the Watcher. She grasped it with both hands and stared intently as if beckoning Sauron to appear -- or else. But it seemed he was already there. As soon as Sick felt his presence and got her attention fixed on the swirling shapes of illuminated smoke inside the Stone, Sauron was in her head.

Sick's plan was originally to get rid of what she believed to be Sauron's insistent presence in her brain. But she was barely sobering up and her mind was spinning. She couldn't focus, and most importantly, she wasn't resistant. In an instant her hands were non-detachable from the Watcher, as was her attention -- and as her fear grew deeper the clouds in the Stone drew apart and unveiled an Eye so hideous she had never seen its like.

There were no words. Pressuring, undiluted domination and demands overwhelmed her like a black bag over the head. _Who was she? Where from? What purpose? Relation to Saruman? Knowledge about the War? About the Ring? The Fellowship? _Sick knew the answer of none of these questions, and if she did, she wouldn't have been able to convey the information. There wasn't a clear thought in her head. The only thing present was the pure instinct of survival and primal horror.

The Palantír grew hot as if the contents had taken fire. There was no notion of time at all, only pain as it grew -- but somehow the complete chaos made Sick take distance from it all for just the time she needed to muster her willpower, tear her eyes away from the Watcher, fill her lungs and bellow (so loudly that the Stone itself was quivering under her scalding hands):

«_SAAARUMAAAN!_»

She ripped her hands away and continued howling in pain. Her knees gave away and she flumped to the floor, soothing her palms on the cold glassy floor, sobbing loudly. Somewhere up there the doors flew open.

Sick awaited the explosion.

It didn't come.

Saruman took hold of her mass of black hair and pulled her up. The next thing Sick knew was the cold wall against her face; Saruman pushed her so hard against the wall she could barely breathe, and he sneered in her ear:

«_This is the end of you._»

«Saruman,» Sick wheezed. «You can defeat him.»

«_Silence!_» Saruman's grip around her upper arms became unbearable. «You know nothing! You--»

«You know what I can do!» Sick whimpered. «You cannot lose! Let us defeat his dominance!»

Saruman was silent for a moment. She could hear in his breathing that he was hesitant. «What you mean to say,» he said slowly. «Is that I have nothing more to lose.»

He released her.

«Elf,» he said. She turned. Saruman looked down at her, head high, and took a step back beckoning towards the Palantír.

«Put your hands on it.»

«But I--» Sick didn't finish, but held up her hands to demonstrate what the Palantír just did to her now fleshless palms.

Saruman laid his hands over hers, and in a flash of heat Sick could appreciate with amazement that her palms were simply healed. The wizard wasn't even carrying his staff! Her mouth was still shaped like an _o_ as she approached the Stone and touched it cautiously.

And in an instant, just as Sauron kicked in, Saruman put his hands on the Stone as well. Sick looked up and met his eyes. And there it was, just the connection needed to combine their individual resistances, which only in combination would repel the immense will of the Dark Lord.

The Stone didn't even heat. In a moment it was dead. During the following ten seconds Sauron's pressuring atmosphere faded away and left the air ten times lighter. They were silent.

And Sick beamed. «What a pushover!» she said and laughed.

«I refuse to believe this situation,» said Saruman dryly.

Sick went quiet and lowered her gaze, -- noticing Saruman's attire. «Saruman,» she said. «What lovely night clothes.» They were white of course, -- but with a fine pattern of small shapes which were drawn in the shape of the tower; it was small Orthancs!

She was amazed when he gave a small chuckle. «It has a history,» he said. «A long story.» Sick looked up again. Still now, in the flickering candlelight, she saw that his eyes were so dark brown. Suddenly she forgot everything about Shaka and Sauron, because Saruman was holding her eyes, and it perplexed her.

His face was expressionless. But Sick could only see that he was beautiful. _Are you going to kiss me now,_ she thought, still staring. _You are. You want to kiss me, don't you. Yes you do, _she went on in her head, her blood pressure increasing. She would do it. If she hadn't known so extremely well that he'd never tolerate it. «You silly girl,» said Saruman.

«What?»

He seemed to suppress a clever smile. «I see straight into your mind through the Palantír.»

«_WHAT!_» Sick screamed and jumped backwards. «_Oh sweet Valar! Oh my! Dear me!_» Her skin seemed to explode with furious blushing. She hid her face in her hands.

«Don't fret!» said Saruman, but he said that with quite a nasty laugh. «You're read like a book! And you talk in your sleep! You can't keep secrets from me, Elf.»

«_Talk in my sleep?_ I don't--» Sick ventured.

The wizard chuckled as he turned to leave. «Oh yes you do. I seem to recall a point before you woke from your concussion where my name was uttered in quite an affectionate manner.»

Sick stared helplessly.

_Saruman._ So tall he was; so grand. His hair gleamed in the dim light, it was a little ruffled up. To her Saruman was something the most attractive she'd encountered, -- but there was nothing to do about it.

«Wait,» she said.

He looked over his shoulder.

«Go to your room, Elf. We will talk tomorrow.»

«No.»

He turned.

«Go to your room. Now.»

«No.»

He walked towards her. As soon as within reach he seized her around the waist. Saruman didn't say anything; he pulled her closer, touched her hair and ran his fingers through it, then lifted her chin with one hand, bent down and kissed her.

He supported her head with his hand when he released her. «Happy now?» he asked.

Sick whimpered. «No!» The Elf was shivering where she stood, grasping the front of Saruman's nightshirt, again blushing, eyes glassy in adoration. For once Saruman didn't seem to mind. But his mind was working. He wasn't certain about these circumstances.

But he pushed her against the Palantír pillar and said gravely: «Elf. Go to your room, or you'll suddenly find that you can't.»

Sick put her head to his chest and breathed his scent.

And Saruman put out his hand to the Watcher pillar, pushed the Palantír out of its supports and had it plummeting to the floor with a loud crack, causing Sick to jump.

«Easy, easy,» he said.

... In which such a friendly, comforting voice could've made any living and breathing female his forever, -- after that long period of scorn and hostility.


	10. CHAPTER X of Unexpected Events

_debra3 (1): I'm especially pleased that the plot can be followed easily! That's usually one of my problems. Thanks!_

_ayle (9): What you're saying there is just what I try to achieve. Glad to hear it's working!_

_Eliriel (9): I'd like to read your story if you'd send it. I'm glad that you like how I did Saruman - that's important to me. And it's difficult. Anyways, if you have any questions at all, feel free to contact me. ;)

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**CHAPTERX _of Unexpected Events_**

Saruman stood reading in front of a window in the library, the morning sun pouring in over him. He appeared as if nothing happened last night worth limping for.

Sick didn't appear as fortunate. Paler than usual, her hair a mess, and with black rings under her eyes, she leaned on the door handle and groaned.

Saruman peered over his shoulder.

«Good morning,» he said and turned back, unsuccessful in hiding that nasty grin.

«It's not funny,» snapped Sick.

The wizard closed the book and put it on the table. «Listen, little lady,» he said- but he hesitated, noticing the distorted look on her face. She was in pain.

He sighed and walked over to her, gripped her arm with one hand and laid the other carefully around her waist. «Never suggest that this was initiated by me,» he commented.

«Of course not!» she answered. «I woke up like this!»

«I believe you understand what I mean,» Saruman sneered.

Sick had no time to reply; the next she knew was a searing heat flowing from his palms - and then, just like that- she was perfectly fine.

«There,» the wizard said and turned to his books.

«Wouldn't you heal the bite marks on my neck too?» Sick asked.

The wizard merely gave her a nasty glare over his shoulder.

Sick stared as he went back to the window. Something wasn't right. Why did he ignore her? Why did she wake up in her own room? Saruman's window was open, and fresh wind flowed past him, making his hair and long robes stir - he was gleaming in the sunlight, looking magnificent as he always did in her eyes. «Look,» said Sick and positioned herself next to him.

She snuck her arm under his and laid her face to his shoulder in an attempt to get his attention. «You don't regret anything, do you now?» she said with a little smile.

He gave her an impatient glance.

Sick let go. She wanted to express her disappointment, but her intuition told her clearly not to. Why did he behave like this! How could he be so affectionate the one day, and so distant the next? She didn't understand!

The possibility of him acting up a play didn't occur to her. Maybe for a good reason; he seemed perfectly genuine: not at all flinching where he stood, not responding the slightest to her naïve advances.

«Saruman …-» she said and leaned closer. His clothes and hair had a lovely scent, in fact it smelt like Saruman and reminded her of things she really shouldn't be thinking of. «I would never have guessed that you were so passionate,» she said. «When you kissed me -»

«Elf,» he snapped. «We do not talk about it.»

«I don't want to talk!» Sick leaned into his chest and pushed him to the windowsill, staring into his eyes.

But he slanted them, and at once they went black. «Cautious,» he warned with a sneer. He grabbed her arms and pushed her firmly back, and he said: «There is one matter which is not yet settled.» He had a sly smirk that concerned Sick. «The matter of your name. What was it your red-eyed persona named you again? _Sick?_»

«She doesn't know what she !» protested Sick.

«Quiet. It fits you remarkably well. You behave in the manner of neither Elves nor women. Do you honestly expect my respect? Be off with you!»

He picked up his book and turned away as if she wasn't even there; or rather, as if he experienced a woman's advances at least once a day for the last 266 years. Before continuing whatever he was doing, however, he gave her a last annoyed glance and said: «Why are you standing there like a retard? Get out of my sight!»

The hurt was burning on Sick's face.

She was at an absolute loss for words.

«_No!_» Her eyes had watered over, but she blinked the tears away and stared fretfully at him. «You don't trust me!» she stated, her voice quivering. «Why!»

Saruman closed his book and shooed her away with it. «Do as I say.»

But Sick did something he'd never expect. She grabbed the book and ripped it out of his hands. «_NO!_» she yelled. She slammed the book onto the table and took the front of Saruman's robes. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she screamed: «What harm would I possibly do you? I don't want your power! And … I don't want any of your possessions!» She drew her breath. «_I want you!_»

Saruman seized her arm, eyes narrowed to black slits and teeth gritted - in the same motion as lifting his other hand. It was obvious that he intended to strike her. … But he hesitated. For a fraction of a second only, Sick saw it in his eyes - he wouldn't strike her as long as he knew - deep down - that her intentions weren't ill. He knew it. But Saruman didn't trust his own hunch.

Shoving her away he set a scornful glare on her and said:

«Valar be damned for granting me this shape - so overpowered by your _worthless_ instincts!»

But Sick felt far from granting him sympathy.

«Valar have mercy on you,» she replied, still sobbing, «- for day by day tearing me slowly apart.»

Right there was a very loaded silence between them. What was going through Saruman's mind? Nobody could ever have the slightest clue.

The tension was broken like a stone to still water by a sudden thunder booming up through the tower. Sick blinked.

But Saruman showed no sign of surprise. «I will never know how matters could come to this,» he muttered before he went past her and disappeared through the library doors.

Sick blinked again, sniffed and swept her cheeks dry with her sleeves. What now?

The notions of either pursuing the man, ignoring him on purpose or doing nothing at all were fighting in her head. Logically enough considering Sick- she came to do nothing at all. She stood there and pondered, but for little use: she found herself clueless.

After a while Sick started when the library doors opened behind her. She whirled around to find Saruman entering - and toddling after him, a man. Sick hid her curiosity. Saruman had a visitor! Who was this?

He was short - well now, compared to the wizard, that is. The man was, in fact, not much lower than Sick. He glanced at her with interest rather than surprise which implied that Saruman had informed of her presence already.

His slanting eyes were pale blue in his wizened face- the one slightly paler than the other, Sick noticed. His pasty skin set a striking contrast to the shoulder-length raven strands of his greasy hair hanging in front his face.

He was hunched. But that might've been his posture only, and again a contrast to Saruman's straight figure. Sick eyed him with curiosity. Never had she seen such a creature; he seemed so weak and pale - his clothes sopping wet and dripping on the library floor. The big black cloak and rich fabrics of his clothes implied that he must've been a man of stature before- but now he was worn, filthy, and, as mentioned, thoroughly soaking wet.

Saruman was curiously curt towards his visitor. Whether he was angry with Sick still, or annoyed for some other reason, she could not tell. Maybe it was a bit of both.

«This is Gríma, son of Galmod, a man of Rohan,» said Saruman gruffly. «Gríma. This is Lady Sick, my guest for some time.» Sick suppressed a shameful sigh from hearing Saruman present her like that, and nodded to the little man. Saruman seemed to have noticed the enquiring look on Gríma's face, and added with a note of irritation to his voice: «Yes, Gríma. Lady Sick is an Elf. I know not if you have ever seen a real one. Please be so kind as to retreat to your chamber and change your filthy clothes.»

Gríma nodded courtly to Sick before he turned swiftly and tottered out. But just before he turned his head Sick noticed a remarkable expression on his face, which very well could've been accompanied by an unaware smile - but it seemed that Saruman subconsciously intimidated him from it.

Something was there. Sick felt there was more to this little person than he or Saruman were willing to tell - and it intrigued her. She stared at the doors as the wizard closed them after the man.

«Who was -»

«I already informed you.» Saruman went around the table and took up his place in front of the window, glancing at her. «Never you mind. He arrived on an inappropriate time. Come here.»

«What?»

He beckoned her with his hand. «Come here.»

Sick did as he said. She stood before the wizard, peering nervously up at his expressionless face.

«Don't believe that you have earned yourself a permanent residence here, Sick,» Saruman said coldly. «One more of your attempts towards me, and I will send you to Minas Tirith, perils or no perils. Do I make myself clear?»

She stared at him, eyes huge and disbelieving.

«… Well?» he said.

She sniffed, then her eyes watered over, and she sobbed loudly as tears rapidly ran down her cheeks, she sounded like an animal in agony.

Saruman looked at her with distaste. «For the sake of Manwë!» he exclaimed. «What is your problem, Elf!»

«Do you need to ask!» she wailed. «Did you not hear what I said before!»

«You do not seriously expect me to believe you?» snarled Saruman with contempt.

He turned and pulled out one of the tall chairs by the table, still keeping his eyes on her as he put his staff away and sat down. «Try to reason, for once, Sick,» he said calmly. «You come out of nowhere and serve me a questionable story. You obviously want to stay here, and you show interest in me. _Everything _about you is curious! Your eye colour changes, you're dim-witted but come up with the most brilliant ideas, and you're insane in a way I've never seen. You are an Elf, and you smoke pipe-weed. You haven't given me a reason to distrust you. You ask why I do?» He stared solemnly at her. «I have no reason either way. My doubt does not work to your benefit.»

She stared at him, not knowing what to say, still sobbing, her brow furrowed. «But ... -» she began. She coughed and said: «But why did you make love to me?»

«I did not,» he said simply. «I had sex with you.»

«Why?»

«Isn't it obvious?» he said in an annoyed tone. «I am a man. I gave you a chance to back out. You did not take it.»

«But why –»

«This conversation is over, Sick!» stated Saruman and turned to the table. «Go to you room.»

«But I …!»

«Go to your room.»

She stood behind him, staring at the back of his head, still crying and sniffing, an endless well of anguish and frustration in her gut. Saruman could, of course, trust her perfectly. It didn't even cross her mind to blame Saruman for taking advantage of her. All she was thinking was that she wanted to show him that he indeed could trust her, and that he, over time, might be able to grow a bit fond of her after all.

This is where another women, if present, would have slapped Sick twice and said: 'NO SICK, HE WON'T!'. But Sick had only herself to rely on. Her mind told her that even now, she was in love with the wizard.

She was able to recognise that she'd better leave the library at once, though. There was no use talking to Saruman when he'd given an order. With a last sorrowful glance at him she swept past him and out.

The doors slid slowly closed behind her.


	11. CHAPTER XI of a Lost Treasure

_I didn't see it necessary to change much in these chapters. They're quite similar to the old sickstory. Further on I'll have a somewhat quicker pacing and more rewriting, before I pick up where old sickstory left off. So. Thanks for sticking with me!

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**CHAPTERXI _of a Lost Treasure_**

Sick didn't go to her room; for some reason she went upwards instead. Tears still streaming down her face - however silently now - she made her way to the Watcher Room and pushed the doors open.

She started when she saw Gríma.

The Palantír lay untouched on its pillar. But the metal gate and the wooden doors leading to the huge balcony were open, and out there stood Gríma, dressed in clean robes, glancing at her. «Good day, lady Sick,» he said.

Sick got no impression of his personality. She dried her eyes hurriedly with her sleeve, mumbling a 'good day' to the man. Gríma looked searchingly at her for a few seconds before he turned back.

The thoughts in Sick's head were bundled in a mess. She might've been able to sort things out in her unconsciousness if she went to her room and slept for a bit, but it didn't occur to her. Instead she leaned into the Palantír pillar, staring intently into the dead Watcher - not in order to seek out Sauron for council, but in lack anything better to do. The Stone was dead.

Soon she started crying again, and she stood like that for a long time, leaning into the pillar and sobbing softly to the Palantír.

Hours went by, probably. Sick lost track of time, dozing on and off in the manner of Elves, her thoughts making no sense when she came to herself. But she felt better. Gríma was still standing on the balcony, so she'd apparently not slept for long.

Then she realised what had caught her attention. She could hear voices from outside.

She turned and noticed Gríma peering over the balcony rail, and attentive, Sick went out and positioned herself beside him, looking over the rail and down into the pit.

«Who -» she began, but she interrupted herself.

Deep down there, on the flight of stairs, just above the surface of the muddy lake, stood a group of people. Sick gasped in surprise as she noticed something white stir below, and she saw Saruman, standing on a balcony just above the entrance doors.

She narrowed her eyes and leaned out. With a feeling of mixed surprise and delight she fished another piece of clear knowledge out of her mind: These were bits and pieces of the fellowship that guarded or transported a powerful ring, the One Ring! Sick couldn't remember clearly. She could make out the king, though, Aragorn son of Arathorn, and the Elf, and two hobbits, probably Meriadoc, yes, and Peregrin.

But who was the old man speaking up?

He stood in front of the others, barely visible below Saruman's balcony. Robes white and gleaming in the sun and his hair and beard long and white, he was obviously another wizard - carrying a white staff.

Sick held back an indulgent chuckle. He was like a funny imitation of Saruman, seemingly not blessed with his master's stature, elegance and dignity. Oh, his name was Gandalf! Peculiar matter that his robes were white, Sick mused.

«Lady -» began Gríma beside her.

«Please,» she interrupted. «I need to listen.» Sick realized that some Men of Rohan were present down there, even their king Théoden, to whom Saruman was currently speaking. The Elf stood still, leant over the rail, listening intently.

Saruman attempted to convince Théoden something. Sick couldn't catch it, and perhaps it was for the better; she had a suspicion that he was using his Voice to manipulate the old king.

It didn't seem to work!

Saruman said more, his voice was louder, but Sick could still only catch fragments. Then Gandalf spoke. His voice was strong, clear and very easily heard.

«Saruman, you missed your path in life! You should have been the king's jester and earned your bread, and stripes too, by mimicking his counsellors. Ah me!»

Sick drew her breath sharply. She imagined herself saying something like that - by Elbereth, Saruman would have fed her bit by bit to the Uruks! Saruman had apparently asked the other wizard to come up, Sick figured, as Gandalf went on with a few sentences that didn't make sense, and said:

«But listen, Saruman, for the last time! Will you not come down? Isengard has proved less strong than your hope and fancy made it. So may other things in which you still have trust. Would it not be well to leave it for a while? To turn to new things, perhaps? Think well, Saruman! Will you not come down?»

Had his army of Orcs and Uruks failed? Sick could hardly imagine that, but Gandalf's presence probably proved it. Another matter occurred to her: Gandalf could hardly _expect _Saruman to come down. After serving the comment about the king's jester? Hardly! Sick snorted. What was this? What did this old man really want?

Saruman spoke - and then he turned his back on the group and retreated.

Sick gasped as Gandalf boomed:

«Come back, Saruman!»

_He came back! _

But he came, obviously, at least from Sick's point of view, very reluctantly back. She held her breath as she witnessed him turn back, clutching his staff. Slowly Sick began to feel distaste against the other white wizard. She was certain he'd come to Middle-Earth in the first place to fight Sauron and do good. The idea of Saruman coming down from the tower was good- It was a good thing, and a goal the other one should be able to achieve, if only he wanted to!

But he didn't. It was not his goal.

The next moment Gandalf got what he wanted. Sick heard him say: «I did not give you leave to go! I have not finished! You have become a fool, Saruman, and yet pitiable!»

Sick almost let out a cry, she couldn't believe what she was hearing! And on he went! Gandalf humiliated Saruman as only a man knowing another man well can do it, topping it in revealing himself as the more proper White Wizard, claiming to cast Saruman from the Order.

Sick didn't realise that she was gripping the rail of the balcony so her knuckles whitened. She glared down with slanting eyes like an enraged lion. But Gríma gave her an odd look - just as Gandalf bellowed:

«_Saruman! Your staff is broken!_»

A _crack _echoed between the mountains. And just like that Gandalf raised his staff and had Saruman's break near the top, the head of it tumbling down from the balcony and landing by Gandalf's feet.

Sick held her hands hard over her mouth in order not to shriek out like another idiot.

The next thing she did was absolutely not thought-through, but she acted so swiftly that neither she nor Gríma had time to think: suddenly she bolted back into the Watcher Room, grabbed the Palantír with both hands, and back by the rail she held the huge black crystal out in the air, figuring out over seconds how she needed to drop it in order to cave Gandalf's head in.

But Gríma grabbed her arm at the same moment, and the course of the Stone was displaced just a little- and instead of pummelling down into the head of the self-absorbed wizard it hit the side of the rail of Saruman's balcony and crashed into the staircase with a resonating crack.

«Lady!» cried Gríma. Horror and panic was written over his pale face. He didn't say more, but neither did he need to: Saruman was going to kill for this.

Sick turned again, sped past the empty Palantír pillar and out the doors, rushed into the spiralling staircase and reeled with dizziness as she bustled out into the hall if the third floor.

In the hall was Saruman.

But Sick stopped abruptly, staring perplexedly down.

Never had she believed that she'd see him like this, ever. His previous exhaustion from Saurons domination was _nothing_. He was facing on the floor, hair spread out around him; he tried to support himself with a hand clutched around his broken staff.

Sick knelt down and brushed his hair away from his face. Then she put her arms around him and breathed into his hair. Saruman lost his grip around his staff. It clattered to the floor as he slumped towards the Elf, leaning all his weight on her.

«I will go out and get it back,» Sick said.

«Sick …» he responded, his voice barely a whisper. He was shivering. With an effort of strength he lifted his hands and grabbed her, his hands tightly gripping the fabric of the back of her dress. «Stay. Don't go down.»

It could've been a command - but the tone of his voice implied otherwise. For once Sick _wanted _to do as he said. But she let go. Still supporting his nearly limp body for a few seconds she kissed him and stood up. She stared hesitantly at the seemingly unconscious wizard on the floor. Then she made up her mind - and bolted out.

The group of people was still at the bottom of the outer staircase when she peered out.

The Palantír was in Gandalf's hands. Slowly, very cautiously, Sick walked down the stairs. The top of Saruman's staff lay at Gandalf's feet.

Then Peregrin noticed her. «Look!» he yelled and pointed straight at her.

Everybody turned. But Sick didn't take notice. She walked slowly, faced Gandalf at last, bent and picked up the broken piece of wizard's staff, all the while holding his stare.

He gave her a peculiar look as she straightened up and she couldn't place it. Neither did she bother. This man, he … In fact he looked like Saruman, only ugly. Sick recalled in an instant what she just witnessed.

«How could you!» she sneered, her voice barely a whisper.

And in a moment without thinking, her eyes turning dangerously violet, Sick crouched together, lifted one long leg and delivered a forceful kick to Gandalf's stomach with a surprisingly effective technique.

It happened over a slight second. She wasn't strong at all. But the mere manner of how she placed her weight, how she stood on her supporting leg and how she inflicted the force, had the old man tossed backwards and splashing into the muddy lake, soaking his gleaming robes in the filthy water.

Sick turned on her heel and sprang back up the stairs.

She did not get far, however. The very next she knew was Aragorn's steely grip around her wrist.

«Not too swiftly, lady Elf,» he said firmly, his grey eyes set on her.

Sick stood still. Staring calmly at the Man, her eyes pale violet, she said in a low voice:

«Let me go, king.»

Aragorn continued his cold stare. Sick returned it unflinchingly. Both were expressionless.

«Aragorn!»

Gandalf stood in the shallow water- looking ridiculous in his muddy white costume. But his voice was firm and commanding: «Let her go.»

Aragorn did as the wizard bade. Still holding her gaze, he let go of her. The Man turned and walked away without saying another word - as did Sick. The top of Saruman's broken staff clutched to her chest she turned, and walked back.

Before she reached the doors, however, she swirled around as she heard light footsteps behind her. There was the Elf man. Sick peered perplexedly at him over her shoulder.

«Lady!» he said, his tenor voice low, his azure eyes set in hers. «What happened to you!»

«I appreciate your concern,» she said. «But there is no reason to worry.»

He stared searchingly at her, making her suspect that her eye colour had changed again. «He's dominating you,» Legolas said, and it was a statement rather than a question.

«Let go,» answered Sick coldly - the Elf had taken hold of her arm.

«Lady, I cannot let you return,» Legolas decided. «You must come to Minas Tirith with us.»

«That is not for you to decide,» said Sick. Her voice was ominously low. She attempted to pull her arm out of Legolas's grip, but it was futile. «Would you let go of my arm, please,» she asked, her narrowed eyes glinting.

«Nay, lady, forgive me!» said Legolas determinedly. «You are of my kind! I cannot let you stay here, a victim to this … _wretched _wizard!» He attempted to lead her down the stairs, a firm grip still around her arm, pure concern in her eyes.

He wished only good. But Sick's eyes flashed into deep crimson, and ripping her arm forcefully out of Legolas's long hand, she sneered:

«_Get out of my sight at once, chauvinist swine!»_

The stare he gave her was of confusion and disbelief.

Sick couldn't care less. She turned swiftly, disappeared into the black tower and locked the doors when they swung together behind her. She only had thoughts for Saruman. Entering the third floor she found that he wasn't there - was he feeling better, then? She rushed up the staircases and entered the library, panting like mad, but Saruman wasn't there, either.

She sat at the table. He must be in his private chambers, then. She considered going up there and knock at his doors but thought better of it. Surely he'd prefer solitude at this point, she knew him that well! He knew where to find her if he needed her.

So she stayed in the library, reading two volumes about warfare strategies with the setting sun behind her. Soon the library was left in flickering candlelight, only a faint colour along the horizon revealing where the sun vanished. As night fell over Isengard Sick finished the last book and began realizing that Saruman most likely had retreated for the night.

She closed the book and placed it back onto its shelf when a mad roar shook the foundations of Orthanc.

The Elf bolted out of the library. What was going on! Was someone being killed? She could hardly imagine Saruman lose control like that - but entering the top floor and bumping into the doorframe of the Watcher Room - laying eyes on the wizard - had her imagining otherwise.

The Palantír.

She had completely forgotten. What with Gandalf, the broken staff, and Legolas, and all.

But Saruman stood there, staring at the empty Palantír pillar, an apprehensive and staggered look to his entire self.

He turned his head and set his glowering stare in her.

«Sick!» he bellowed and charged towards her, grabbing her thin neck with one hand, pinning her against the wall. Sick hit her head against the stone surface and gasped from the sudden pain, but Saruman caught her attention soon enough. Never had she seen him this furious; his black eyes gleamed as if he'd lost his mind, his features were twisted with rage.

«You gave it to them. Didn't you.» It wasn't a question.

Suddenly Sick understood more clearly his distrust in her. The entire time he'd anticipated something like this to occur. He'd been right.

The difference was that Sick hadn't given the Stone away for the sake of giving it. «I did not. By Valar. I did not!» she sobbed.

«_Then tell me where it is!_» he raged, the sound painful to Sick's ears. The long nails of his hand dug into her neck.

«I … I … -» she sobbed.

And then, all of a sudden, she saw something stir in the doorway- it was a low, cloaked figure, peering into the room. Gríma.

Sick's eyes flashed into a sharp crimson.

She raised her arm slowly and pointed at the little man.

«Gríma did it.» She drew her breath. «He tossed it out from the balcony.»


End file.
